He changed his tune...

I love my OB. I really do. He's down to earth -says things like "dude" and "I'm not gonna shit ya" - and he's my biggest advocate. When I had that embryonic remnant cyst last year, he worked hard to find a surgeon to operate. He's easy to talk to and treats me with respect and listens to my concerns without brushing them off as just another crazy pregnant lady. He's humble and confident. He is the only doctor in his practice with just one nurse and one receptionist. He likes to keep it personal and small, and I love that I get to know these people who are a part of something so big in my life so well.

All that being said, today I wanted to sock him. He said "I'd bet you make it pretty close to term." I lost a pound today and the baby measured normal, around 6 lbs, 10 ounces. After telling me last week that the baby was quite big and I'd probably only go to 38 weeks and that he'd probably induce around 38 1/2. I had seen an end in sight and he took it away just as quickly this week.

And I cried. Literally. I made it out of the office door so he didn't think I was a total nutcase.

Not because I don't want my baby to be healthy.

Not because I don't want what's best for my son. I know this whole pregnancy thing is not about me.

But because the thought of another 23 days like this broke me down.

I haven't had many emotional breakdowns this pregnancy. I've had a few seriously bad days. But nothing on the level of a total meltdown. I have a few pregnant friends who are very hormonal and I read their blogs with sympathy because although I have the same hormones coursing through me, I have managed to avoid the major meltdown issues some of my friends have had to deal with. But another three weeks like this has me in a total emotional state.

My scalp is itchy with psoriasis I can't treat with my medication and nothing homeopathic has worked. My skin is breaking out in weird things. I can barely shave my legs anymore. I can't sleep for more than 20-30 minutes at a time. I sweat despite the air conditioning being on "artic." My daughter wants me to play with her and I have no energy, despite trying to get up, walk around, eat well. Her tantrums, normal for any two-year old, wear me down more than they should. Water gives me heartburn.

I could go on, but I know you all know how I feel. Most of you have been pregnant before, many multiple times and many in the summer.

Most of you are probably sick of hearing me whine about this pregnancy. Especially since it's been healthy and uneventful. Some of you may think I'm being ungrateful for my health and the health of my unborn son. But I'm not. I'm grateful beyond words for those things.

I KNOW it is not about me. I know that I am a vessel for my child and the longer he cooks, the better. I know it could be worse.

Logically, I know all of these things.

Physically, I hurt.

Emotionally, I am beat down.

I know there is an end. Just like the first pregnancy, this one too, will end. And just like the first time, I know the end result is worth every miserable second.

Multiple Choice

The reason Charlotte has no clothes on and two diapers (one regular under her swim diaper) is:

(a) We mentioned "swimming at Grandmas" and she threw a colossal fit, insisted on wearing a swim diaper and since they leak, we just put it over her regular diaper.
(b) She threw a colossal fit and wouldn't put her dress back on and the bathing suit was already packed.
(c) Despite trying to reason with her that we'd put on her swim diaper and bathing suit when we got to Grandma's, she threw herself to the ground in a colossal fit until we let her go naked, with only sunglasses and sandals.
(d) All of the above.

Overheard while playing Mario Kart on the Wii

(After Charlotte was put down for the night)
(We may be slightly competitive)

"Damn you Baby Peach, suck a d1ck"

"That mother-effing Wario stole my box"

"Heh. You said 'my box'"

"Yeah well now Koopa is being a punk bitch."

"Get outta my way in your fricking baby buggy."

"Oh, look who's crying now, Baby Sissy Bitch. I'm gonna whoop all your asses."

"That goddamned duck thing keeps eating me."

"Sonofamotherlessgoatwhore, who just zapped me?"

Nothing like playing video games with your husband on a Friday night...

Phew

The "thing" behind my ear seemed bigger this morning and still a little bloody, so I tried my dermatologist again. No cancellations and despite my worrying and telling them I may be giving birth next week, they couldn't get me in. I knew that it was something terrible and each day on my head was another day it was metastasizing into a nearby lymph node.

So I called one of my best girlfriends who is a dermatologist PA and asked if she was in the office and if she could get me in today. She assured me she was sure it was because I was pregnant that I got something weird but she took me in immediately. The reason I didn't call her first was because her office no longer accepts my insurance so I'd have to pay out of pocket and go through the hassle of submitting the bill to my insurance for out-of-network. Within seconds of her looking at the "thing" on the back of my ear, she said "Oh, that's just a blood vessel. It's because you're pregnant."

She cauterized it and said it may come back and need to be removed and stitched but it doesn't need to be biopsied or anything. She didn't even charge me.

Woot! Now I have one less thing to worry about and focus all my worrying energy on the whole GIVING BIRTH AGAIN thing. Gah-reat.

Berkner, who?

I know OF kid's musicians. I hear about them from my friends - Laurie Berkner, Raffi, and even the Barenaked Ladies and Jack Johnson are on the children's music bandwagon. I think it's great that these musicians exist and that even mainstream artists have made albums specifially for kids.

However, there is none of that in our house. I just can't do it. It's like driving rusty nails into my eardrums.

We listen to music almost all day in this house, changing it up for whatever we're doing. I have playlists on my MP3 player as soundtracks to our daily activities.

Cleaning? Well, let's put on some Basshunter, Paul Van Dyk, BT, and 4 Strings and dance our asses off with our Dysons.
Cooking? We'll rock to Metro Station, Kane, Duffy, Counting Crows, Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson.
Eating dinner? Lower and volume and cue up Anouk, Adele, Otis Redding, BB King, Sam Cooke.

My kid, if nothing else, has one of the most eclctic musical tastes of any two-year old and I'm proud of that. I WANT her to listen to and appreciate all forms of music, like her Dad and I do (although he listens to some stuff I call "maniacal screaming" but he insists the lyrics are good, and I wouldn't know because I can't hear the lyrics through the maniacal screaming).

I don't want her NOT to listen to the kid's music but it just won't be in this house.

Don't get me wrong. We sing kid's songs all day with her and she learns a lot at her dayhome. She sings her ABCs and Itsy Bitsy Spider all day long. She knows traditional kids songs, just like we did growing up. There was no Laurie Berkner or Dan Zanes (who creeps me out by the way) when we were kids and somehow, I could sing Where is Thumbkin with the best of them.

I try and make sure the music we do listen to around her has lyrics without curses or violence (i.e., I leave the Timbland for my solo car rides) but I don't feel like I'm depriving her of anything by not giving her access to "kid's music."

As you can see, her current favorite is Mercy by Duffy, and though she usually sings along, she of course would not do it on camera. She did, however, shake it like a polaroid picture:



What about you? Do your kids listen to kid's musicians? Do you secretly want to ram your head into a concrete cinder block? Or do you like it and feel the benefits outweigh your personal agony?

The Last

Cass made a comment the other day about how everything she's doing this week is "the last" before she has her baby. Her last haircut and color, her last big work project, etc.

And I am totally on The Last bandwagon as well.

Today, I got my last mani/pedi/waxing. I'm sure some of you think this is self-indulgent and a waste of money, and you'd be right. And hoo boy, do I not care, because I NEED that time to pamper and feel good about myself. It makes me feel pretty and confident when I "landscape" myself, and what better time to do that when I am inches away from shooting a baby out of Mount Hinterlands?

I go every three weeks for these treats. Seeing as how I'm almost 37 weeks pregnant, I damn well better not be back in time for my next appointment. I said that I'd call when I had the baby to set up when I could come in next.

Tuesday was the last day I could clean behind the toilet since I literally almost got stuck. Last Friday was the last movie I'd see for quite some time. Today was Charlotte's last day of going to her dayhome for a few weeks while her provider recovers from surgery.

Everything seems to be The Last.

The Last as a mother of one.

A confession

I have a parental confession to make. One I'm sure some of you will judge me for. One I'm sure people will think I'm selfish and not the best mother I could be. And one I'm sure some of you will agree with.

I don't really like playing with my daughter.

I love DOING things with her and we do almost everything as a little family of three (soon to be four). I love going shopping with her, taking her to the zoo, the aquarium, the park, the boardwalk, the beach, Great Adventure. I love watching her run around in the backyard or dig through her sandbox. She loves food shopping and baking. We cook all kinds of meals together and at 2, she already knows how to work the KitchenAid and has her own apron and hat.


We clean and organize together. I give her a little spray bottle with water and a rag and she helps me "clean" the windows and doors. She has her own little Dyson and broom, and we do our chores together. We read lots of books and go through flash cards and memory games.

But I have the imagination of a houseplant. To sit on the floor with her (when I could get on the floor) and play with her dolls or her Little People is like slow Chinese water torture for me. I DO it, because the alternative would be to put the TV on (which, I have to admit, I do way more often now that I'm gigantically uncomfortable). I don't mind building blocks because it is so mindless and we can build and knock down towers, which requires very little acting and imagination on my part. I also like coloring and drawing with her for the same reason.

When it involves anything I have to pretend about, I suck. On a massive level. And I quickly try and find a way out. Because of this, she has learned to play pretty well on her own while I work, clean, cook - or lately - relax. Part of me feels guilty about this and the other part thinks that I am doing a damn good job most of the time and not every parent can be good at everything. Mike picks up my slack in this category and he is the one that gets on the floor with her, plays horsey, sets up car ramps, wrestles, etc. So I think we have a pretty good balance.

But there you have it. I'd rather lick a goat then play with Little People.

You?

Something else to worry about

The heating pad seemed to help loosen the muscles as the day went on and surprisingly, other than the lingering ache in my back, the rest of me felt pretty good. My hips didn't hurt too badly today and I had a decent amount of energy. Yesterday, getting off the couch was an effort. Today, I feel like 27% human.

On an unrelated topic, I have this weird small thingie behind my right ear that I am convinced is a melanoma and I'm going to die at any minute. It came out of nowhere, and has been around for a few weeks now, bleeding profusely if I scratch it. I had it healed up, though still raised, and accidentally scratched it again today. I made an appointment with a dermatologist for next Thursday since that was the earliest anyone could get me in. I suppose I could call tomorrow and see if they have any earlier openings but it's unlikely since I'm a new patient. My old dermatologist no longer accepts my insurance. I'm a fairly mole-y person and am covered in freckles, beauty marks, and small moles that never change and have never bothered me. Still, I know I need a few removed and know that I need to be under constant watch since I am so fair. Part of me wants this baby out ASAP and part of me hopes I can wait until after this appointment so I can make it there and get this thing removed before it freaks me out anymore.

Usually Googling things serves nothing more than fueling my neurosis, but in this case after looking at tons of pictures of melanoma, I am pretty sure it's not that but I am also not convinced it is completely innocuous. I mean, weird things just don't grow in random places out of nowhere, right?

In any case, catching it within a month regardless of what it is should be quick enough to nip whatever it is in the bud. Right? RIGHT? (This is where you tell me I'm overreacting and it's probably just a abscessed pimple or something equally gross but not as life-threatening and even if it is something bad, catching it within a month is good, right?)

Just one more thing for me to worry about, I suppose.

As if wondering when this baby will come is not enough. The way he is pushing and kicking lately, I swear he wants out. Babycenter.com said I should expect a decrease in movement since he is running out of space. Apparently, I have a lot more space than necessary because if anything, he is moving MORE. Along with the fact that he is around 6-7 pounds, I feel like a swallowed a sumo wrestler who revvs up, takes aim, and rams my intestines at full speed. It no longer feels cute and magical but has taken to being actually painful, pushing my skin so taught, I am convinced it will rupture. Other times, he kicks or punches backwards or downwards and I feel like my bladder and/or colon may simultaneously collapse.

He must be lower, because now rather than the sneeze pee, I have the cough-laugh-blow-my-nose-think-too-hard pee. I don't think he dropped yet though, do you?

(36 weeks)
(My take-the-goddamned-picture-right-now face)

Another thing of note: this was the last installment picture my last pregnancy. I gave birth a day later.

One more thing...

I was picking up Charlotte to put her on her changing table this morning and something cracked and popped in my upper back between my shoulder blades.

Instantly, the muscles around it cramped. I half-assedly put on my kid's diaper, put her down and lied on the floor trying to get them to uncramp. She thought I was sick and got upset so I stood up, got two Tylenol, and tried to make her breakfast without crying.

I tried to stretch them but it only felt better if I let them tense up, which of course is no real help. I got through breakfast and am now sitting on the couch against a heating pad, which seems to be loosening the cramps. Of course, being as pregnant as I am, I'm sweating like a pig wishes he could.

I had a better post to write, but my mind can't focus right now.

Maybe I should call my OB and see if there are any anti-inflammatories I can take that are safe. I know ibuprofen is a major no-no, but Tylenol is a serious joke. I might as well lick a wall considering both seem as effective at reducing my pain and fevers.

Vaccinations

First, let me say this: Everyone be nice to everyone in the comments. I know this can be a heated discussion, much like breastfeeding and working parents. I want to hear your comments and opinions, but stay nice.

One of my good friends has an autistic son, whom I've mentioned here before. Mike and I are pretty active in the search for a cause and we help in any way we can - raising money to walk, attending benefits, educating ourselves.

My friend, along with many other parents, believes that the vaccinations (specifically the MMR in her case) had an effect on her son. She doesn't think that children shouldn't be vaccinated, or that it is the only cause of this disease, but she does believe there is a link. And for me, there is just not enough evidence to prove otherwise.

Here in NJ, the rate of autism is 1 in 150. And the rate is almost quadrupled for boys over girls. That's a pretty scary statistic for any parent. Specifically, it scares me that ANYTHING could happen to this little boy in my belly. So, Mike and I have done more research - A LOT. Just like we did when we were deciding whether or not to circumcise our son. I don't go into any decision half-assed, especially when it is something irreversible like the removal of a piece of his body or an injection of substance into his bloodstream.

With Charlotte, I didn't know as much as we do now. The research was around but it was not as prevalent, and I was not as immersed in being "green" as I am now. She drank from bottles I didn't know where made from BPA. She had all of her shots on the recommended schedule, sometimes upwards of four at a time. Often, she had a reaction and would be miserable for days. Luckily for us, and for many other parents out there who did the same thing, our babies were fine. But now that I know of these issues, and can make such small steps to make different, better decisions, I feel I can do more for my children. Be more of an advocate for their health.

There are articles everywhere about this. On whether or not to vaccinate and the different recommendations for timelines, etc. One of the most shocking things I read was that newborns are routinely vaccinated for Hepatitis B in the hospital shortly after birth. Hep B is transmitted only through needles, sexual contact, and/or blood/body fluids. Can anyone tell me why my 1-day old son needs that? Why his little system can't wait a couple months? Also on the schedule for vaccinations is a timeline of suggested inoculations, boosters, etc., sometimes upwards of three-four injections at once. I heard a guy on the radio discussing this topic and said his wife was a vet, and they don't even give the animals more than one - at the most, two - vaccinations at once because of the risk of reactions. Doesn't it seem a bit insane that this logic doesn't hold true for our HUMAN babies?

I will be vaccinating my son, and will continue to vaccinate my daughter. We have made scientific strides as a society that prevent our children from dying of simple things that killed hundreds of babies merely 50 years ago and are still killing children in other parts of the world as I type this.

What I will not be doing is giving them more than one shot at a time. I will most likely follow Dr. Sears' Schedule. They will get titers first to see if they already have immunity to a disease before they get a booster. I will be delaying Sawyer's MMR until he is past two and hopefully breaking them up into two-three separate vaccines. I will gladly pay out-of-pocket if my insurance doesn't like this. He will not be getting the Hep B in the hospital if I can help it. If my pediatricians give me problems with this, I will find another one.

I'm not against vaccines. I do not believe they are the sole cause to the autism epidemic. But I can't rule them out as a possibly dangerous thing to my child, especially as they are currently manufactured. Just like with the BPA - why risk it if I don't have to? Until our country does more to Green our Vaccines, (the cause Jenny McCarthy works for) and protect our children from other chemicals, I'm going to do as best as I can to advocate for my babies.

Did you vaccinate? Did you change the schedule? Would you change what you had done knowing any of the research? Do you believe in any of the links between autism and vaccines?

Chinese

I'm getting to the point in this pregnancy where I am bargaining with whatever higher power I can think of at the time to just Get. Him. Out. Of. Me. God, Allah, Thor -- they've all got voicemails from me.

I had my 36-week OB appointment this morning, and it was as uneventful as the rest of them. Everything is okay other than, you know, being 9 months pregnant. The baby is measuring quite large, at around 6 lbs, 10 oz and thought I know those things can be off, it seems pretty accurate considering Charlotte was 6 lbs, 14 oz when I delivered her at 36 weeks. The doctor thinks I'll probably go on my own in the next couple of weeks, but if I don't, he said he won't let the baby get too big and can induce at 38-38 1/2 weeks.

---

On a non-pregnancy-whining related note, my daughter thinks she's Chinese. Now, don't misconstrue me here. There's nothing wrong with actually being Chinese of course, but Charlotte just isn't. The other night when she was lying in her crib, doing her singing-and-talking-to-herself nighttime thing, I thought I misheard when she kept yelling out "I Chinese! I Chinese!" But the following day, she again insisted that she were Chinese. I told her, "No honey. You're not Chinese. We like all people. But you're American." And she said, "No. I Chinese." And everyday since then she insists she's Chinese. I don't know if she understands what she means or where in creation she got it from. But there you have it. My two-year old is Chinese now.

I know there's a show on after Dora on Nick, Jr. called Kai-Lan and the main character is a little Chinese girl. But we've never actually watched it because the TV goes off after Dora in the mornings. Maybe she catches it at her dayhome? Or maybe this is just one of those weird random toddler things? I wonder where their little minds come up with this stuff?

Has your toddler ever cracked you up with something out of left field?

Our story

I asked you all how you met your spouses a few posts ago. I suppose it's only fair I share my story.

I had moved home after college to help out my family, save some money (yeah right), find a job, etc. My father was ill, my mother worked full time, and my sister was pregnant. The summer I graduated, I was 21 and was hired by one of the world's leading technical publishers - a job I am still at now. I spent my days working, going to the gym, helping out with the baby at home, shopping, dating, going to the bars with friends, etc.

I dated a few guys here and there but nothing ever serious. When the last of the semi-serious boyfriends and I broke up, I had enough of wang-holes and of crying over them. At a friend's urging, the next morning I logged onto match.com which was a new thing at the time, paid the fee, created a profile, and began browsing. The first (and subsequently, the only) email I sent out was to a 26-yr old guy who lived a town over. He emailed me back and we began a friendship. He lived here but was in Iraq for the next few months and though a nice guy, I wasn't interested in dealing with dating a guy who had to be out of the country, let alone a warzone.

I ate my words when emails became video conferences and phonecalls were daily. He worked in satellite communications so was responsible for the internet and phone for his base, which is why we could talk so often. Months passed. He sent me flowers at work, bought my sister a stroller for her baby shower, bought me my first real camera. I made him care packages with un-meltable food, books, cards, letters, new clothes.

As Savage Garden as this sounds, I knew I loved him before I met him.

His plane arrived in August and I picked him up from the airport. There was no weirdness. It was like we had been together for years. There was no "dating." We just were. We spent almost every minute of the next month together. He went back to Iraq for the rest of his time and while he was away, I looked at condos. He trusted me and I chose one. His mother was his power of attorney for while he was away, and she loved the condo too. So by the time he came back in December, we bought and closed on our first house. We were engaged by February, married eighteen months later, and pregnant on our honeymoon.

Things may have moved fast but when you marry your best friend, time doesn't really exist.

Life is good.


(Summer before our wedding. We look so young and rested.)

It finally happened (no, not labor)

Since I am feeling tons better today, although still slow, crampy, and waddly, I decided to take Demon Spawn to Target. She loves to get out and go shopping and I knew we both needed an outing. Besides normal household items we were low on, I also needed a few last minute things before baby (read: granny panties and giant maxi pads).

I got showered, dressed, and off we went. As I was pulling into the lot, someone in the second spot was pulling out. Woot! Normally, I park wherever and never "spot shop" but I am 35 weeks pregnant and walking for any length of time is becoming more and more of a game of chicken (When will I have to pee? When will the next Braxton Hicks stop me in my tracks? Will I make it to housewares before I sneeze and pee myself?) So I pulled into the spot even though it seemed a little tight.

I shut the car off, put away my sunglasses and keys, and opened the door to get out.

I could not get out.

There was not enough space (plenty for any human being and/or wolly mammoth though) for me to maneuver myself and my giant belly out of the car. No matter which angle I tried, I was stuck. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I started the car back up and moved it to a spot further down from any cars and pulled up with my side facing a cart drop. This way, I was assured that no one else could park next to me and prohibit me from getting back IN my car. Could you imagine that loudpseaker conversation?

"Attention Target shoppers. Would the owner of the Honda parked next to the red Explorer please go to the lot and move your car? There is a pregnant woman who can't get into her car because SHE IS TOO GIGANTIC. HA HA HA!"

Harpoon me now, people.

Um, honey? Eat me.

"Whatcha doin?" Mike saunters into the kitchen behind me.

"Making something to eat. You want something?"

"No, I'm just going to make nachos."

"Okay."

"Um, honey? What are you doing? Is that butter?"

"Yes."

"And are you putting it on toast?"

"Yes."

"The same toast you just put peanut butter on?"

"Yes. THE SAME TOAST I PUT PEANUT BUTTER ON. I'm about nine months pregnant. I can put butter on a yak and eat it if I wanted to."

He stops and thinks for a second, I assume carefully choosing his next words.

"Have you ever actually had yak? It's not bad. Kinda tastes like goat."

Oh. My. Dog.

(35 weeks)

(Yes, that's The Shirt. The only one that was fit the whole way through. One of only 3 shirts that still fit. Man, I wish I bought 7 of them.)

Wocky Walls (A gratuituous cute kid picture post)

For Charlotte's birthday, Mike's parents bought her a playground for the backyard.





And she has not come off of it since, often demanding to "climb the wocky walls" despite rain, heat, a giant pregnant momma, etc. Mike took some great pictures this week while I was lying on the couch wishing I were simultaneously in an ice bath and on the surface of the sun all at once.

Without further ado, here are some self-indulgent pictures of my incredibly cute spawn.

Relax.

Good things: 1) no fever; 2) feeling better; 3) prenatal massages with a special table where I could lie FACE DOWN!; 4) guacamole.

Bad things: 1) Salon robes that barely close across giant pregnant bellies, causing me to flash my girly bits at at least four unsuspecting women who may never see again; 2) the ending of said prenatal massage; 3) the fact that I don't own one of these prenatal massage tables so I could lie there with a book under my face; 4) world hunger.

Today was the first time in about 8 months that I could lay on my "stomach" and it was FANTASTIC. As wonderful as the massage was, the fact that I could position myself this way was in and of itself a wonderful feeling. The baby did kick and punch the whole time in his more weightless environment but I tried not to let that distract me from the full body massage, which was wonderful. I think I loved the leg and foot part the best since I've had this Jimmy Leg feeling for weeks where I want to kick and walk all the time (I suppose similar to RLS) and this helped calm that down.

It was a great gift and I totally needed it.

Now if only I could have smuggled out that massage table to sleep at night, I totally would have.

99.5

I'll take it! I haven't taken a Tylenol since 2 pm and my fever is down to almost normal. And I can feel it. I had no afternoon spike or chills or hot flashes. I was able to sit at the table and enjoy dinner without shivering through it or trying to pour ice cream down my britches to cool myself off.

I had more energy after dinner and even finally got around to packing my hospital bag (Note: still need crappy granny pantaloons and travel toothbrush). It's funny how different packing the bag is the second time around. The first time I was concerned about what outfits to pack, and I even went out and bought new cute pajamas, slippers, and such. I had packed a few different outfits to bring our daughter home in. I had packed diapers, blankets, onesies. This time? Two pair of ginormous yoga pants, three large T-shirts, my Boppy, some mini toiletries, and the cord blood collection kit. That's all. Because if I remember correctly, I was too busy bleeding my brains out through Mount Hinterlands to give a rat's ass if I was wearing matching pajamas. I also know they load you up with diapers and though born nekkid, they DO clothe your baby there. I suppose if I want his picture to be in something different, I should throw a onesie or two in my bag, but the truth is those pictures come out so damn awful anyway, why bother?

Mike also scheduled me a prenatal massage for tomorrow at 11 and I am really looking forward to it. I've never had a real massage at all, and if a woman were to ever need one, now is definitely the time. I'm crossing my fingers Mr. Fever McHotpants stays away and I feel as good tomorrow morning as I do right now. Other than that, I still plan on taking it easy tomorrow so I can continue to fight whatever bug it is I have.

You don't even realize how truly shitty you feel until you feel not-so-shitty and you look back and you're like "wow, I felt REALLY shitty." And three days of a relatively high fever certainly makes one feel uber-shitastic. But I feel much better as of right now and just hope the upswing continues.

Last pregnancy Mike tried to surprise me with a prenatal massage and I went into labor the day before. He was actually afraid to make me this appointment for fear of the same thing. As much as I want this kid to start paying taxes, I'd like him to cook at least another week or so, so let's hope there's no such thing as superstition.

As we were brushing our teeth for bed tonight, I said "Huh, that's funny. I finally feel better and get around to packing my bag and my massage is tomorrow. Wouldn't it be funny if I went into labor tonight?" And he looked me dead in the eye, frothy-mouthed with toothpaste, and said in a loving way, "You shut your mouth, woman."

Indeed.

Day Three

Today is day three of Weird Fever. It has a pattern. It spikes overnight up to 103, then breaks. I wake up drenched in sweat and then proceed to get the chills. By the morning, it is lower around 100 and though tired and with a general yucky feeling, I am okay for most of the morning. Around 10-11, I get this clammy sweaty feeling which goes away by early afternoon and by 4, the fever spikes again usually close to 103 and the chills are so bad that despite pouring on layers of clothes, I can't get warm. An hour or so later, I am not only warm but HOT. My face gets red and flushed and the fever hovers around 102. As the evening goes on, I lie on the couch, depleted of all energy. By 8-9, I start to feel better and get ready and get into bed.

It's a bizarre cycle, but has held the same pattern for three days now (at least as far as this day is shaping up). Wanna know something even weirder? When I called the OB again today and I was talking to the nurse, she asked "Does it get worse around 4-5 pm and again in the middle of the night?" It was like she was a Fever Mind Reading Genius. When I gave her the run-down of the times and such, she said that it was totally normal and that fevers tend to spike in the early evening and middle of the night, and that they go off our circadian rhythms. Have you heard this? There are no office hours today but she'll update the doctor when he calls for his messages. I figure it's just a virus that has to run its course, but I wanted to keep them in the loop and make sure he doesn't want to run more tests.

Of course, I have now convinced myself I have a myriad of illnesses - from Lyme's to the flu. And I'm sure it's way more innocuous than those ailments (although my husband did pull a deer tick off him the other day). I just wish I would feel better already. If I thought I had no energy and was uncomfortable before this virus, I was sorely mistaken. I just try and get through the day, hoping that the next will be better. So far, that hasn't happened but I hold out hope that it will.

The good news is that none of my family seems to be afflicted by whatever I have and that the baby is still as active as ever. If I'm not getting any better by tomorrow, I'm going to ask him to run some more blood work more comprehensive than a CBC. There's really not much else I can do, is there?

Anything

I need something - anything - to keep my mind off the fact that I am convinced I am literally cooking my unborn son with this seemingly unending fever or that my eyelids will burst into flames at any moment. I have even taken to holding a bag of frozen home fries to the back of my neck to alleviate the feeling that my face is on fire.

So tell me. How did you and your spouse/partner meet?

Baby, you give me fever. Fever all through the night...

I wish those were just song lyrics. They are not.

Yesterday morning, I was sweaty and clammy. I figured it was just the humidity so I cranked the air. By 2 pm, I was lying on the couch in flannel pajamas, fleece socks, a sweatshirt and a blanket, shivering. I could not get warm and yet my face was bright red and flushed. Ding! The dumbass bell rang in my head and I took my temperature. 102.7. WTF? Other than a headache which throbbed when I stood up, I had no other symptoms. I took a 500-mg Tylenol and the chills went away and the fever dropped to 101. But no lower, so I took another Tylenol. I took my blood pressure to make sure it wasn't too high, and it was relatively normal 135/85, but my pulse was 130. Then, under duress of my friends and family threatening to drive here and make me call my OB immediately instead of waiting till morning like I had planned, I called.

He had me go into L&D for monitoring, which I knew would happen. This required us to wake up our toddler who had just fallen asleep. We packed her up to take to Grandma's and instead of sleeping on the way there, she counted lights for 20 miles. We get to the hospital and they're all ready for me. They hook me up, take my BP, and temp. The fever was just breaking as I got there and I was clammy and sweating. My pulse rate was still high, over 130 which made the baby's heart rate jump to over 180. They started me on IV full blast and as it went in, both of our heart rates normalized. They did a urine culture and a CBC. The urine came back a little "off" whatever that means, but couldn't rule out contamination so went off of the CBC which came back negative.

They sent me home and off to Grandma's we went to wake a sleeping toddler yet again. By the time I got home, my fever was back to 101, so I took another Tylenol. By the early morning on one of my trips to the potty, it was up to 103. I apparently have to be very cognizant of taking the Tylenol every four hours or the fever rears its ugly head. Other than an annoying headache and the general suckassedy (yes, that's a word) feeling a fever brings, I have no other symptoms.

Mike took the day off to take care of Charlotte for me so I can do the only thing they told me to do - "rest and drink plenty of fluids."

I just wish I knew what it was but all the can say is that I have a "bug" of some sort. And according to the resident on duty last night, I was her fifth OB patient with a FUO - a fever of unknown origin. So I guess I'm not alone and there are other already uncomfortable pregnant women with the same ailment. Somehow, there isn't much solace in that.

Whine, Whine, Blah, Blah

Since my social life has been reduced to my two cats, a rather precocious toddler, my husband, and the Discovery Channel, I don't have much else to focus on other than HOW UNFUCKINGCOMFORTABLE I AM.

And the worst part is I know I am annoying everyone around me because I am annoying MYSELF for chrisssakes. I directly apologize to you hundreds of strangers who read me who used to think I was funny and witty and lighthearted.

Now I am just a pregnant shell of a woman who lets her two-year old watch way too much TV and looks at a sink full of dishes like a triathlon, because each seem like equally insurmountable tasks.

I feel like any interesting part of me has been sucked out by this baby and carrying him, and I don't even find joy in things I used to love. Reading, a deep passion of mine, has been pushed aside because I can't find a position comfortable enough to get through ten pages without having to shift around. I no longer have the social and mental stimulation of my professional life and though I am thankful for the early maternity leave, I am also left with a feeling that I couldn't hold an adult conversation for more than five minutes that didn't involve my pelvis and how I am SURE it is separating as we speak.

I know there are women out there who have it way worse - whose pregnancies leave them bedridden, trying to find care for their children, help in their homes, having their lives turned upside down. And I am more than grateful I am not in any of those situations.

But, like Swistle's motto: I acknowledge my luckiness, without giving up my claim to the suckiness.

And this last month of pregnancy? SUCKS.

99.2%

The negative Ffn test I had at the hospital last week gave me a 99.2% chance that I won't go into labor within the next week or two. Week one is up and now at 35 weeks, the test is useless since my body is releasing the Ffn protein that they look for in that test. The baby measured over five pounds at my last visit so I'm fairly confident that if I had him early, he'd be just fine. Charlotte was almost 7 pounds at 36 weeks - imagine if she went to term!

Still, we had some issues with Charlotte that I'm not entirely convinced weren't due to her early birth. She wouldn't latch and despite weeks of trying, I couldn't breastfeed. She had pretty severe infant GERD. It was bad enough to warrant medication despite my feeling that it was a last resort. And though she may have had these issues had she gone to term, I couldn't help but wonder if she had "cooked" a little longer if some of these issues would have been issues at all. Through it all, she still thrived, but her life as an infant was pockmarked by pain and eating issues, and we all suffered. I swore she'd never stop crying or drink more than 4 ounces.

I hope that my son doesn't have to go through the same problems regardless of his arrival date. As as much as am I sick of being pregnant, if it means having a healthy baby who may be spared the same issues as his sister, I will happily carry to term (or close enough before I start paying people off to get this kid OUT of me).

In the meantime I will be silently FREAKING OUT because I have no idea when this kid is coming, and have I mentioned I'm a control freak and not knowing KILLS me? I didn't know with Charlotte either, but had no clue that I didn't have four-five more weeks so when my water broke in the middle of the night with no other symptoms of labor, it was truly a surprise. This time, I keep waiting for that rush of fluid or for the incredibly frequent Braxton Hicks to become more regular and painful. I keep assuming I'm going to go early because of the size of the baby and my history of early delivery but for all I know I could go all the way to 40 weeks (OhSweetBabyJeebusPleaseDon'tLetMeGoPast40Weeks).

Each day I become more and more uncomfortable and as I type this, my son has his foot wedged under my sternum and I feel like I swallowed a chicken bone, like that guy in Beetlejuice. Sometimes in the morning as I wake up, I stretch forgetting how largely pregnant I am, and pull at a round ligament and wish I had instead inserted my hand into a meat grinder because that pain HAS to be less significant, right? The heartburn has been taken to a new level where I swear that even water comes back up into my throat as a conflagration. My hands and fingers, though better with the braces, are double in size and make opening bottles, gripping pens, and turning doorknobs an almost impossibilty. If something falls on the floor, it is a lost cause and stays there until I can coerce a toddler to pick it up. And if I need a pot from the bottom cabinet for a meal, I say fuck it and make something else that requires no pots. I am peeing every 53 seconds and though I feel like my bladder must contain the contents of Lake Michigan, mere drops come out.

But if it means Sawyer will be a big, happy, healthy baby, I'll take it all.

Only for a few more weeks though.

Then, the little ninja gets an eviction notice.

Happy Father's Day

Aflame

Here's a list of children's television characters I would like to immediately place on a viking funeral pyre and watch burn.

1) The Map from Dora. I hope he walks to close to a fireplace.


2) Ming Ming from the WonderPets. Would I cry if she were eaten by an eagle? No. Not Weally.


3) Baby Bear from Sesame Street. A hunter? No pwoblem.

4) Fran the Squirrel from Higglytown Heroes. I hope she chokes on her nuts, don'tchaknow?



5) Jo-Jo. I want to take her little clay body and show her how I do stretches and yoga.


6) Arthur. What the eff IS he? And why is he so bad with women?

Who are your most hated children's characters?

Rare breed

Despite being approximately 838 pounds (maybe more since I just ate two rice krispie treats BEFORE 8 am) and about nine months pregnant, I like housework. I know, right? WHO am I?

I'm a control freak and in a world full of things I can't control (my current obsession is when I will go into labor), my environment is one of those things I can. So yesterday when I signed off on all household duties and just laid my fat butt on the couch, it damn near KILLED me.

Charlotte is still going to her dayhome twice a week even though I am on maternity leave. She loves it there and I have no intention of taking away her social life. Plus now that I'm home full time, we definitely need the break from each other. We are so much alike that even though I've got 26 years on her, we still butt heads. I love spending time with her but I also know we need our time apart. And usually during this time, I'm working. However, now that I'm not also an Editor but just a Pregnant Wife And Mother (not that the word "just" belongs there, because I don't mean to downplay those jobs because they are by far the hardest ones), my role and schedule is a bit off. And I kind of wander around the house like a lost puppy looking for something to do. And when there is stuff to do, ignoring it goes against every fiber of my being.

But since I'd have the day "off" yesterday, Mike insisted that I rest, watch a couple movies I've been meaning to (Will Smith does pull ups or push ups and cries in every movie, doesn't he?) and do nothing. Do you know how hard that was? I mentioned this before but my house is pretty damn clean on a regular basis, and at the very least gets "messy" but that's what gets me - the clutter (even though any sane person would not think it's clutter, I've never claimed to be sane). I get all twitchy looking at a shelf with extra crap on it or dishes in the sink. I can't keep my eyes averted from the shadow toddler face greased on my storm door or the cheerios crushed into the rug. I feel like I can't relax until my environment is a relaxing place to be in.

At work, there are people who literally can't see their desks the papers are piled so thick. My desk? Must be clean or I can't start working.

Does this make me a little nuts? Is anyone else like this? I just feel more relaxed and productive in an environment that is the same.

So when I sat on the couch from 9-2 yesterday (I did get up and shower and to get Thin Mints) it was HARD. But Mike was right. In a few weeks, I'll never get a day like that again. I'll have one or both kids home, or will be working when they aren't. A six-hour window to sit on my arse may never come again for all I know. At least not for a few years. So I took it. And I ignored all that needed to be done and just focused on Will Smith's sweaty body relaxing.

But then the strangest thing happened. When Mike and Charlotte were both home and it was time to start dinner, get the kitchen cleaned up, put together some baby stuff, etc., I had NO motivation. Like seriously, I could have laid down on my cold tile floor and taken a nap with a cat pillow. I don't think I'm used to stopping and resting, because HOO BOY is it hard to get the engines revving again. I needed not one, but TWO lattes from my Tassimo in order to face The Sink Of Doom. And then of course, my unborn son spent the late evening tweaking in my belly. Serves me right I guess.

Lazy

There are toys on the floor, dishes in the sink, clean laundry piles four feet high.

There are new baby clothes to put away, baby seats to put together, floors to be mopped.

There is a toilet to clean, a shower to scrub, a dining room to organize.

There's stainless steel appliances with streaks, windows with toddler hand prints all over them.

And it will all be there tonight.

I'm taking today off.

Baby soup?

Today?

I put on a bathing suit (or as my toddler calls it, a "baby soup"). What in the name of all that is chocolate in the world was I thinking? It wasn't even a maternity suit, but my suit from last year, which was so damn cute and two pieces (no skin showing, just two pieces) that I thought "Eh, who cares if a little belly shows?" I refuse to buy a maternity suit because 1) I'd rather throw up in my mouth and 2) I better not be pregnant long enough to get use out of it.

This is the disaster the Free World encountered today:

(34 weeks)

I kept trying to pull it down to cover my belly, and then my boobs would literally fall out, scaring any nearby living creatures into thinking giant purple flapjack nipples were attacking them. So I gave up and went out like that. Even went through the McDonald's drive-thru for a egg & cheese biscuit and orange juice, which means that someone other than those I share blood (or a marriage license) with were forced to see me.

I went swimming for the first time ever as a Pregnant Person and the feeling of it was really cool - I felt light and weightless, no pressure on my hips, and his kicks and movements felt more like bubbles and butterflies than karate-chops and ninja-kicks. I just floated. At one point my belly floated above the water and my mother cackled "I love you honey, but with the color of your suit and your pale belly, you just looked like a killer whale surfacing for air and your belly button was the blow hole." This made her laugh for a good ten minutes. Only a mother could say that and live to tell the story.

However, climbing out the ladder made me feel like I was 800 pounds or under three times gravity. For an hour or so each time I got out of the pool, walking, moving, bending was awful. I felt like I was doing it with weights strapped to my arms and legs, which I guess technically I am. It was a bizarre feeling to have to get used to being gigantic all over again.

I feel like The Little (Giant) Engine That Could but instead of chanting "I think I can, I think I can," my mantra is "A few more weeks, A few more weeks."

Beauty in the heat....

Results

Let's go back to the ketchup-on-meat discussion. It was a landslide victory to those people who believe it is not only unacceptable, but AN INSULT, to put ketchup and/or steak sauce on steak. Some people bent their opinions with the cut of meat and thought that some condiments were tolerable if the cut was sub-par.

Mike has won. I hate you all (except for those of you who agreed with me, of course).

I like condiments. Ketchup, mayo, mustard, relish, honey dijon, bbq, steak sauce, balsamic, worchestshire, gravy - I love them all. Most likely with any meat I'm having, I make some sort of dip/sauce that compliment it. I am a Master Sauce Maker. I don't like my meat plain. Period.
So, yes: I PUT KETCHUP ON STEAK, EVEN (wait for it...............) FILET MIGNON! This has caused more than a million arguments at our dinner table, and Mike won't even take me to a nice steakhouse for fear that I would ask for some sort of sauce for my steak. It's OFFENSIVE, he says! RUDE!

Can someone give me a good reason why? I don't get this. If I want to put strawberry sauce on a turkey leg, is it insulting to the turkey? (Not that I do this, but humor me). Or when I get chicken and put gravy on it, am I insulting the chef or the chicken for this act? What about when you put ketchup on a burger? Isn't beef from a cow? Just like the filet part? Why is it acceptable to put condiments on one cut of THE SAME ANIMAL but not the other? And why do chefs take it personally? They are not the cow that died for my meat. Why is it any more insulting to put a condiment on one thing they make but not another?

I will continue do eat ketchup on my beef, regardless of cut or chop, and you all can suck it. Until you give me a GOOD reason why it is any different than any other food preference. And WHY is it INSULTING to anyone. Not to mention, don't you Canadians put some weird creepy stuff on your fries? I can hear fields of potatoes crying now, and yet, YOU DO IT ANYWAY.

I will not do it in a fancy restaurant, not because I agree with this oppression of personal taste in any way, but because I want my husband and anyone else I'm with to enjoy their meal and I wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable NO MATTER HOW FRICKEN STUPID it may be. Because I rock like that.

Moving on....

Other than SciFi Dad, who I'm seriously considering ending my friendship with after he said this: "If you take a bubblegum pop crap song and "cover" it with a bubblegum pop crap artist, you still end up with bubblegum pop crap. It's like a zero-sum game," most of you agreed with me. (P.S. Even though I am hurt by his words, he is having a contest over at his review site with a great giveaway with awesome books. Go visit!)

Rick Astley is The Man, and there are certain songs that should NEVER be remade as it takes away from the original magic. I am a child of the 80s and like Cass said, a little piece of me died when I heard that someone born in 1985 was remaking it - A DISNEY STAR nonetheless! The horror!

I'm usually very against remakes in general, and there are only a handful I find just as good as the original. I'm not sure there has ever been a remake better than the original. Do you know of any?

The worst remake I've ever ever ever ever heard was Dolly Parton redoing Fine Young Cannibals' "She Drives Me Crazy." (Click the link if you want to hear such blasphemy). When I heard that, I lost a little piece of my soul I may never be able to reclaim.

What remakes do you love? Which do you hate?

I hate to admit this in such a public forum, but I've been totally digging Fall Out Boy's remake of "Beat It," though I wonder if anyone should ever cover Michael Jackson. Like ever.

Election time!

Rick Astley:



or Ashley Tisdale?



Personally, I think it's sacrilege to remake such a perfect song and she should be beaten about her little poofy head for this.

Vote now and tomorrow I will discuss the results of this and the Great Ketchup Debate. It should be heated!

Things are Good. Life is good.

I woke up today with a dull remnant ache of the pain from the weekend. Mike stayed home today and we both went to the OB hoping for some answers. We got none. The baby is fine - big and healthy. Even the resident examining me in the hospital said "Wow, that's a big boy in there!" I have plenty of fluid, his heart rate his fine, and my blood pressure came back down.

There's no real answer for my pain and pressure and the only thing to do for it is to rest. I'm glad I'm finished with work and that I have a husband who is home at 2:30 everyday. I'm also happy that the pain has abated, because I swear to Target, I would have been camping out in front of my OB's house begging him to end my misery if I had to live like that for the next few weeks.

The OB also said to me today, "I'd bet you go in the next 2-3 weeks," which of course prompted me to have a slight nervous breakdown in which I had Mike drive me directly to Babies R Us so I could get the remaining items I needed for Sawyer's arrival - new glass baby bottles, newborn pacifiers, formula, a new Boppy since I used my last one TO DEATH. I feel better now that we have those things, and even though the Ffn test said I wouldn't be in labor within a week, that only buys me 5 more days technically. After that, it could be a day or two, it could be 5 weeks.

Yesterday, my cousin Michele threw me a wonderful little baby shower. Even though I had a big one just two years ago, she went out of her way to make sure that this baby and pregnancy was celebrated as well. I didn't need much, except clothes, diapers, wipes, etc., and boy did my family come through! We got literally over 500 diapers and giant packages of wipes and refills. So, to everyone that reads this, thank you. And thank you again so much, Michele. Sincerely. It meant a lot to me that this baby was celebrated with as much love as Charlotte was.


(Me and my sister Amy)

There are no words for whatever the hell I was doing here:


He's a doctor in the making (I hope he goes into plastics, so he can fix up his old-ass Momma in 30 years):


(Seriously, is it possible to have more than two chins? I have at least four here. And my left boob looks like it may flop out at any minute.)


This is my face when my sister kept telling me she didn't like my "fake AndreAnna smile":



We made sure Charlotte was included before Mike left with her:





How cute is the punch? It was also incredibly tasty and I made a mental note to get the recipe because I kept thinking to myself how wonderful it would be with some vodka.



My favorite thing of the day was this:




Why yes, that is a little black baby on my cake! Not that I cared in the least, but my cousin was so upset at this mistake, she kept saying, "But I circled Caucasian on the slip, I swear!"

African American or Caucasian, he sure tasted good to me! :)

Everything's ok

Sorry if I worried any of you out there, my twitter peeps. All is well , but I sure feel like shit on a shingle.

I spent the afternoon in labor and delivery at my hospital for this weird pressure feeling that was accompanied by irregular contractions. It started this morning and got worse as the day went on. I was putting off going as long as possible because it didn't feel like labor. But it kept getting worse, to the point where it hurt to move, walk, or even lie down. So I finally caved in and went. They did all the tests, ultrasound, cervix, urinalysis, and even the new Ffn test, and all is well. Even though I was contracting on the monitors, they were not strong and the FFn test came back negative - which means I am at a less than 1% chance of delivering in the next week or so.

It's incredibly cool and reassuring that they have these tests but it doesn't help that I'm still in pain. My only hope is that it is something intestinal and my irregular contractions are only making it worse. I feel like there is a giant air balloon in my stomach from my pelvis to my sternum and every move I make, every bump in the car, every kick from the baby takes my breath away. I wish I knew how to explain it better, but at least the baby is okay and staying put.

I'm going to bed now to rest. And hopefully will wake up feeling deflated.

Toddler Vocab Lesson

Mine: Anything she touches

I want some: Anything I am eating, drinking, looking at.

I don't want anymore: Anything she is eating, drinking, looking at.

Leo, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!: Phrase shrieked any time the cat moves in her general direction.

Go outside?: Request uttered 90 times an hour.

I wanna go OUTSIDE NOW: Retort when I deny her request because I am 826 pounds and it is 140 degrees out.

Watch Dora?: Answer in response to my question of "For the love of SWEETBABYJEEBUS, is there anything else you want to watch? I'm going to lose it if I hear that Map one more time."

Baby Brudder: The guy taking up her lap space, which she fruitlessly tries to move. Obviously this does not work since it is ATTACHED to me.

Daddy sleeping? Daddy working?: Questions asked 40 times a day when Mike is working.

I help you.: Usually occurs when I'm trying to load the dishwasher, which is NO HELP AT ALL, considering last time I checked, a Dora pillow and a cat should not go through the "pots and pans" cycle.

Momma rock me?: Delay tactic in postponing nap time.

I peed! I did stinky poop! I got a poop-a heinie!: These phrases, along with the fact that she wakes up dry in the morning and from naps have me assuming she's ready to potty train. However, when I ask her to sit on the potty, she throws herself to the floor, earning an Oscar as The Girl Who Hated The Potty.

Some Instructions

Instructions on how to sleep as a Very Large Pregnant Woman:

1) Pee before you lay down.
2) Put on wrist braces.
3) Position one pillow under your belly, one between your legs, and one for your head.
4) Settle in and get comfortable.
5) Hear that your husband has fallen asleep in 0.02 seconds while your GIANT ASS can't get comfortable enough to fall asleep, upon when he starts snoring and that pisses you off even more, because not only did he fall asleep before you but he has the nerve to rub your face in it in his slumber.
6) Get up and pee again.
7) Reposition pillows and fall asleep.
8) Wake up in one hour to roll over and reposition pillows IMMEDIATELY because you are so damn uncomfortable you will just die if you don't change positions within seconds.
9) Huff and puff to roll over, making sea cow sounds, secretly hoping your cacophony of utter discomfort wake your obnoxiously sleeping husband.
10) Fall back to sleep.
11) Wake up to pee.
12) Get back into bed and comfortable. Realize you're not comfortable AT ALL.
13) Commence rolling over sequence.
14) Fall back to sleep.
15) Wake up to husband talking in his sleep about zombies and "getting to higher ground."
16) Resist the urge to stab husband with your chapstick since it's the only thing you can reach.
17) Figure since you're up, you might as well pee again.
18) Position pillows and fall back to sleep.
19) Wake up to husband snoozing his alarm for the fourth time.
20) Re-resist stabbing urge.
21) Fall back to sleep once husband leaves for work.
22) Wake up minutes later to your child on the monitor yelling, "Momma, it's morning! I got boogers!"

Ashamed of Humanity

Have you guys seen this yet? If not, watch it, because I want to discuss it.



Is there anything that surprises you in this video?

For me, it's not the fact that the guy flips out. I work in a office with cubicles and know how the life can be. Add a little loony to the mix and this is bound to happen. Luckily, I like most of my colleagues. However, there are a couple I could totally see doing this. I try and be friendly to them because on the day they flip their shit, I'd like to be spared a monitor to the head.

What really surprises me is that no one really acts until he's significantly lost his shit for awhile. People just stand there with their thumbs up their bungholes waiting for what crazy thing he's gonna do next. I count no less than four men in the room at the time the guy flips out. FOUR. I realize that the women may be afraid to act, especially those whacked in the dome with a monitor, and most women are conditioned that they are not strong enough (and many aren't) to fight an attacker. And they are probably scared. But the men? Not one of them tries to stop him for a FULL minute, 30 seconds, when a man enters from the right doorway and starts kung-fu-ing his ass and finally gets him to the ground. Why didn't all four of those assmuffins start some serious whoopass the SECOND the guy flung a 20-pound monitor at his female coworkers head?

I don't know about the men in your life, but I know for a fact that if my husband were in the room where this happened and there were women in danger, he'd be on top of that guy like Britney on a cheeto. And I'd like to think that the men you know would be in that same room and join forces against the ONE crackhead who's flipping out. I mean, I know that crazy is strong, but four-five men are stronger.

Obviously since I'm 14 million months pregnant I wouldn't go busting out my Tae Bo skills and my first concern would be to protect my unborn child. But, I'd like to think I'd go for the door or at the very least, move to the back corner of the room. These women just stand there. What's worse is that so do the men! Blows. My. Mind.

Then I go and read this story. An elderly man was hit by a car who fled the scene and people DID NOTHING. In broad daylight. It was all caught by a traffic camera. (I refuse to watch that video as I firmly believe some things cannot be unseen and I don't need such horror in my heart.) People apparently would slow down or gawk, but others would just drive or walk away. Let me say this again: An elderly man was hit by a car and NO ONE helped him. A police officer on another call just happened upon the guy. There aren't even any reports of 911 calls.

Maybe if you are afraid for your safety or don't have any medical skills, you go to him but not touch his blood or move him. You talk to him. You call 911. You stop traffic from driving around his LIMP DYING body until paramedics can arrive. You hold his hand. You tell him he's going to be alright. You ask his name and is he has any grandchildren, and that he should hang on so he can see their faces again. YOU DO NOT IGNORE HIM AND DRIVE AWAY. The man is alive but barely.

I'm seriously baffled by humanity today. I am sad. What is going on with the world? The first video is from Russia so I'm not sure if they have any societal norms in which the men have to be giant pansy sissy boys (which is highly doubtful), but the second story is from Hartford, Connecticut. Our country. Our people. Who are they? What has led our world to completely disregard human life?

What would you do in each situation? And why?

Operation: Make room for baby

Today Mike has off and we are going to the storage unit to get all of the baby essentials - his bed, swing, seat, etc., and dropping off some of the toys (i.e., 74 bags worth) that Charlotte has outgrown.

My Google Reader has just mocked me by showing that I have 98 frumdrillion unread posts and what's worse, there are another 12 million I have read, flagged, but not commented on yet.

But, I swear to Fleetwood Mac, if I don't get some of this nesting out of my system, I may implode into a shriveling pregnant shell of a woman. And my husband may not survive the aftermath.

I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle...I'll be back.

Freaky Fetus

My unborn son gets the hiccups a lot - at least twice a day. When Charlotte had them, it was a slight rhythmic tap-tapping by my pelvis, and only I could feel it. Sawyer, on the other hand, is a different kind of kid. His movements are more pronounced, his kicks are harder than I ever felt and often take my breath away, and he puts his whole body into the hiccups, like an actor striving for that Oscar. And now, with the help of the remote control, you too can see what I experience.

P.S. Those are not underwear. They are pink and blue striped shorts. It's a family show, people!

P.P.S. How cute did my toes come out?

Update

I just got in from the OB and have a few minutes before I have to leave again for my mani/pedi/waxing. I mean, if I was going into labor early, I was gonna do it with pretty nails and eyebrows, damnit.

Good news is that the baby is fine and seems to be staying put. At least for now. According to the doctor, I have "severe carpal tunnel syndrome as bad as I've ever seen it. Like dude, she shouldn't even carry a plate or pot," he said to Mike in the waiting room.

So, I'm off to go find braces to wear to bed at night to hopefully relieve some pain and swelling. In the meantime, it is dangerous for me to carry glass or hot liquid, since my grip blows. And working is no longer a very viable option, considering I'm an editor and can't hold the mouse or a pen for shit. I convinced him to let me work through Monday so I can finish up some stuff, which means my maternity leave officially starts on Tuesday.

I'm relieved that it's not my blood pressure and that the baby is fine. He is staying where it's warm and cozy (but I hope not too cozy, because his eviction notice comes in 4-7 weeks):

(33 weeks)

Watch your tongue

"Charlotte, there's stuff everywhere. You need to pick up some of your toys. Come over here."
"Chill out, Momma."

---

Upon hearing a loud truck across the street, she climbs to her perch on the windowsill,
"Oh crap, Dat's a BIG TWUCK!"

---

"Momma needs to shower. You sit here and play farm with your Little People."
"I take a shower, too?"
"No. You showered with Momma last night. You're clean. Momma stinky from cleaning."
She proceeds to stick her face in my arm pits and sniff.
"Peeee-uwww. Momma is stinky! Go shower WIGHT NOW."

---

"I hear motorcycle, Momma"
"Yeah, it's the kid from up the block again."
"What a punk."
"I guess Daddy taught you that, huh?"
"Punk kid on cycle!"

---

"Put music on, Momma?"
"Sure baby. No problem?"
"I wanna shake my heinie!"

----

What's cuter than...*

...a little girl in a pink dress riding a tractor?





...painted pink toddler toes?



...a two-year old flying a helicopter?





...kids finding joy in a giant inflatable piece of plastic?







...a Daddy with his little girl and nephew?



*Thanks to my sister, who remembered her digital camera AND memory card.

Mickey Mouse Hands

After yesterday and work today, I am too spent to focus on anything much more than Agent Booth in reruns. So, I'm sorry if I suck as a friend and haven't commented or replied emails.

I made an appointment with my OB for tomorrow afternoon because this morning when I woke up, my right hand was so swollen I couldn't bend my fingers or make a fist. The left one was slightly swollen but usable. See the difference?

(left)

(right)

So, I showered and packed the car and kid up with one good hand, and the thumb and forefinger of the other. I drove with my left hand since my right one couldn't grip the steering wheel. My right hand, however, is an excellent Large Iced Coffee Holder. The swelling went down enough for me to use my hand by midday but it was still painful, with those white speckles that you get when you have poor circulation. My appointment is at 3, and we'll see what he says.

I'm worried about my blood pressure but I've been monitoring it with my home BP cuff and it seems fine - holding steady around 130/85. I remember this issue from my pregnancy with Charlotte but it didn't happen this early and when it did, I went into labor within days. My BP was 150/96 for two days prior to my water breaking, and I wonder if I had had a better OB at the time and he were more concerned with it, maybe I could have made it to term. As much as I bitch about this pregnancy, I want my son to be healthy more than anything so he needs to stay put for at least a few more weeks.

His sister wants to meet him, just not yet. I don't think she's ready to share her "chockwit icey cone."

Tired

I started this post fifty different ways and have worked it through in my brain another fifty so that I don't sound whiny, but it's not going to happen. I'm tired. I'm tired of being pregnant.

I miss my body being mine.

I miss rational thought.

Today, I flipped out on my sister and husband no less than three times for Stupid Shit. Because I feel comfortable going off on them; I love them and know they love me, and there's a certain safety net in releasing your pent-up anger and frustration on those you care about and trust the most. I'm not saying it's even remotely okay or justifiable in any sense, but it is what it is.

We went to an air show today with two kids and three adults, which included a very pregnant me. It required packing ahead, rushing around early morning, trying to remember every detail. Sunscreen, folding chairs, snacks, drinks, umbrellas. The car was full. My feet hurt before we even got there. The lines to get in were long and the parking lot was full, despite us getting there so early. Driving in, the lines split. One line of cars went right to park in a lot approximately 80 million miles from the entrance. The other, with handicapped stickers, was sent left, to park closer. I pulled up to the man in the military uniform, put my window down, and said, "Sir, I'm not handicapped, but I'm very pregnant. Any chance I could park closer?" and he replied, "That's a good enough reason for me, ma'am," and let me follow the left line of cars. I love him.

I didn't push The Pregnancy Card any further, did not follow the handicapped cars all the way down and still ended up parking pretty far, but not nearly as far had I not taken a chance and asked. As we unpacked the car, and Mike took out the good camera to set it up, it was apparent that I had left the memory card at home. Cue argument one. Later down the road, there was another over an umbrella. And at some point, I even threw a sissy baby tantrum and swore I was going to sit in the car. I was that irrational.

I hurt. My ankles hurt. My hips hurt. My hands were so swollen this morning, I couldn't bend my fingers for almost an hour. And I still push myself to stay active and do things with my family because I want to. I want to share these things with them. I don't want to sit home in the air conditioning with my feet up, because it means I'd be missing something: my two-year old sitting in a helicopter or watching her face light up seeing the planes fly overhead; my nephew holding Charlotte's hand and jumping in the bounce house, giggling the way only children do; poking fun at the interesting characters an air show brings with my sister and husband (Dude, there was a chick in a tube top, short shorts and STILETTOS. At a military AIR SHOW).

So I go to these family events - Great Adventure, the boardwalk, this Air Show. And I walk a lot. In the heat. I have a good time and I try not to complain. I come home tired, but happy I was there and have those memories.

And then I have days like today where I am just so damn frustrated, it boils over and I hold it in until someone says or does something completely innocuous, but I take the wrong way and totally LOSE MY SHIT. And I am not a shit-loser most of the time. I was mean to my husband and yelled at him in front of other people, something I swore I'd not do anymore. I was snarky with my sister. Over what? An umbrella? A memory card? I am ashamed that I tarnished what could have been a great day of memories with my Pregnancy Of Doom.

This baby has taken over my body and it is no longer mine. I am his vessel and I know it is a wonderful and beautiful thing that many people would be more than grateful to have. However, I'd be lying if I said I was enjoying this leg of the journey. Hell, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want this kid out of me NOW. As I was waddling in the heat, trying to wrangle a hat and sunglasses on a toddler, all I could think of was If I go into labor right now, there'd be plenty of people to help. It's a military base. And then, it would all be over and maybe I'd even get on the news.

I know it will all be over soon, but some days it just doesn't seem soon enough.