Category Archive

Q.  Why do Mormon women stop having children after 35?

A.  Because 36 is just too many.

At your six-week post-partum checkup, they always ask you what form of birth control you're going to use.  When I tell my practitioner that I plan on using the same non-hormonal contraception I've used since the birth of my first child, I sense a marked lack of confidence on her part.  She reminds me that I must be sure to use this form of contraception every single time I have sex.  Yes, I assure her, I know how this particular form of contraception works.  I do not play Russian Roulette with my ovaries.

"Oh, Mad, I know you don't, but you know, accidents do happen."

"I don't have those kinds of accidents."

"Well, people make mistakes."

"I don't make those kinds of mistakes."

Indeed, when I hear about a woman having children less than a year apart, I can only ask someone to please explain how this is done–because, my dears, I do not know.  A few months ago I was talking on this subject with, of all people, my dental hygienist, and she mentioned a former colleague of hers who'd had children nine-and-a-half months apart.

"I don't understand how that's accomplished," I said.

"Well, she'd had her tubes tied," my hygienist explained, "only she didn't have it done right after the birth.  She had it done two weeks later.  And by the time she went to her six-week checkup, she was already pregnant."

"I still don't know how that's accomplished," I said.

My hygienist paused, turned to see if anyone was within hearing distance and said, "To tell you the truth, neither do I."

Really, ladies, if you're crazy enough to be engaging in procreative activities less than two weeks after pushing a human being out down there, I don't know how to begin to lecture you on contraception.  Nothing, apparently, will teach you.

When I had the six-week contraception talk with my midwife in January, she told me she'd see me in a year for my next Pap test–and maybe again for my next pregnancy?  I told her, no offense, but I hope not.

"I feel comfortable closing the door on this chapter of my life," I said.  "I'm not going to lock the door.  But I am going to shut it.  Firmly."

A few weeks later I was feeling crappy, for some reason, and I said to my husband, "If I didn't know better, I'd think I was pregnant."

"Maybe you are pregnant.  Wouldn't that be fun?"

"It would be horrifying."

"Why would it be horrifying?  Don't you like cute little babies?"

"I already have a cute little baby.  I don't need another cute little baby.  If I had another cute little baby, of course I would love it, because it would already be here, but since it's not here, I don't love it, and it is horrifying."

After that conversation, I entertained for the briefest of moments the possibility that I was, somehow, pregnant.  (Though I didn't know how that would have been accomplished because I don't have those kinds of accidents.)  In that briefest of moments I thought that shutting the door firmly, slamming it even, was not enough for me.  I was ready to shut it, lock it, bolt it, and move some heavy furniture in front of it.  Before I started hyperventilating, though, I reminded myself that I don't know how to have babies less than a year apart.   God bless me, I do not know.

After I had Elvis, my midwife wanted to write me a prescription for emergency contraception, as backup just in case I had one of those accidents I don't know how to have.  I don't have a big ethical problem with emergency contraception, but I've never thought it would be necessary in the normal course of my life.  If I should accidentally get pregnant, what's the worst that would happen?  I'd have another baby.  Sure, I'd be upset at first, but I'm married, I'm financially secure (not that financial insecurity has ever stopped me before), and I like babies, so I'd get over it relatively quickly, I think. 

But now that I'm officially not going to have another baby, I've decided to use a backup contraceptive–one so powerful it can't possibly fail.  I'm holding on to my maternity and baby clothes, because I figure as long as they're taking up unwarranted space in my garage, I will never need to use them.  On the other hand, the minute I get rid of them, I am bound to get pregnant, regardless of what other precautions I have taken.  Call it Murphy's Miracle.  I don't intend to let it happen to me.

The other day I was hanging up the children's coats in the hall closet and noticing how small Girlfriend's jacket looked next to the other kids', and I thought with great poignancy that someday there would be no jacket that size hanging in my hall closet.  But that small moment of mourning was followed by the realization that soon I would be entering a different phase of life, one that was exciting and as potentially joy-filled as the Land of Little Coats.  I resolved to cherish the pages that are left in this chapter of my life, even as I closed the door.  Gently.  (But with firmness.)

 

Warning:  The following blog contains graphic descriptions of childbirth and some adult language.  Reader discretion is advised.

 

Actually, it's not that bad.  I just wanted to be sure you all kept reading.

 

I know what you're thinking, by the way.  I should be in bed, not on Xanga.  Blah, blah, blah.  No need to keep lecturing.  I tell my story, then I go back to bed.  Stop hassling me.

 

So to begin at the beginning (sort of), I went to the midwife last Tuesday, and I had her check my cervix.  I had it checked the week before because I was getting my group B strep test done anyway, so what the heck.  And once you start checking your cervix, it's really hard to stop.  So she checked my cervix again, and I was in exactly the same condition I was the week before–70 percent effaced and maybe 1 1/2 cm dilated.  Which is nothing.  "I don't think this baby will come before Thanksgiving," she said.  Which was fine with me, because we had plans for Thanksgiving already.  (See previous blog about inviting the Indians.)  She did note that the baby's head was way, way down in the birth canal, which I didn't need her to tell me because I'd been feeling it there for what seemed like the last three months, but there it was anyway.  (In fact, she was initially concerned, before the internal exam, when she couldn't feel anything whatsoever in my lower abdominal region–that's how low the baby was.  Gross, huh?)

 

Yes, so I went about my business on Wednesday, all the while thinking to myself that the baby was indeed very low–you know that old Peanuts cartoon where Linus becomes "aware of his tongue"?  That was me, only very aware of this almost-full-term baby's head in my birth canal.  It was kind of annoying, actually.  Anyway, around 2:00 in the afternoon, I started feeling contractions.  You would think after birthing three babies already, I would recognize labor when I felt it, but you would be wrong.  It's funny, because with Princess Zurg I had no doubts that I was in labor.  Every other time I have been in some form of denial, maybe because labor always commenced during what seemed to me to be a very inopportune time.  This afternoon I had to take PZ to her counseling appointment, and I had to clean the house for our Thanksgiving guests, and I just really didn't have the patience for this sort of nonsense.  So I was having contractions, far enough apart to be ambiguous, so I remained in denial until about 4:45 p.m., when I was driving PZ home from her appointment and realized I'd been having contractions every ten minutes or so, and actually they hurt a lot more than I was comfortable with.

 

So I got home and told Sugar Daddy there was a distinct possibility that the baby was coming within the next 24 hours.  Because I believe in conservative estimates and don't wish to alarm anyone unnecessarily.  A few minutes later, as I was pacing the living room to get through another contraction, SD said, "I think you're going to have this baby tonight."  At which point I collapsed on the sofa and started whimpering, because I really wasn't in the mood to have a baby just then.  Just so we're clear, I don't advocate whimpering as a coping mechanism for labor pain.  It really didn't help matters at all.

 

I've always delivered a few days before my due date, but this was two weeks early–15 days, to be precise–and I thought that seemed an unlikely possibility, for some reason.  But I went upstairs to get away from SD, who kept asking if he should start calling people or packing something or some other question I didn't know the answer to, and also away from my kids, who were being their usual 5 o'clock hour demon selves, so I could concentrate and determine once and for all if I really was in labor.  Soon enough the contractions were five minutes apart, and I really couldn't deny the obvious any longer, so I called the friend who'd agreed to watch my kids in this event and told her I was in labor, but that I wasn't at that going-to-the-hospital stage yet.  Because I remembered having contractions five minutes apart with Elvis and him not arriving for six more hours, so I didn't want to alarm anyone.  But a few minutes after hanging up the contractions started getting stronger–or everyone in my family was becoming more annoying, I don't know–and I called my friend back and asked her to come over right away.

 

So the kids were upset and tense because they didn't want me to have a baby that night either–PZ was concerned about missing Thanksgiving, Mister Bubby didn't want a babysitter, and Elvis hadn't had a nap and didn't care about my needs anyway.  My friend arrived, and I tried to tell her where Elvis' diapers and pajamas were while I was having a contraction, because you know that information is really, really important and there's no way a grown woman could figure it out on her own.  But finally SD and I got in the car and headed toward the hospital–not taking the freeway, of course, which was jam-chocky full of Thanksgiving travelers, but opting for the side streets and hoping that the construction crews had taken off early for the holidays (which, fortunately, they had).

 

In the car the contractions were three minutes apart and lasting around 90 seconds.  By the time we found a parking space and hauled ourselves down to the maternity ward, they were even closer together.  "So you think you're in labor?" the triage nurse asked. 

 

"Yes, I think so," I said, much too casually to convey the urgency of the situation.  She went to get a fetal monitor, and meanwhile I had this killer contraction and started screaming.  Just so we're clear, I do not recommend screaming as a coping mechanism for labor pain.  It is, in fact, the worst possible thing you can do.  I knew that already, but dammit, I really didn't want to be in labor just then, do you understand?  I wasn't thinking clearly.  Screaming did, however, get about four nurses running into the room, and everyone believed I was in labor after that.  I got my cervix checked again, and I was at seven centimeters, which wasn't good enough for me, because I really wanted to push the baby out immediately, but they had to rush me to an actual delivery room first, and my midwife was still en route.  Have I mentioned already that labor is very, very painful?

 

So everyone is rushing around getting ready for the delivery, anticipating the midwife's arrival, while I am breathlessly informing SD that I cannot do a natural childbirth this time, I really, really need something for the pain, I don't care what it is, but I can't stand it anymore–not in so many words, of course, but I think he got the picture.  We've been married a long time.

 

"What does she need?" the nurse asked SD.  "What did she just say?"

 

"She said, 'Drugs, I need drugs.'"  (For some reason this was amusing to some members of the staff, because I know I heard laughter.  I heard it again a minute later when I was screaming stuff like, "Why did I do this???&quot

 

So about ten minutes after I'd had my initial cervix check, they checked me again and informed me that my cervix was "all gone" and there was nothing left to do but have the baby.  Well, the midwife was still 15 minutes away, which is an eternity in labor-time, but a very nice gentleman by the name of Dr. S came in and introduced himself and said his services were available should they be needed before the midwife could arrive.  (It's good to know they keep spares around, isn't it?)

 

Very shortly after this I felt this baby very-low-in-my-birth-canal creeping every lower down in my birth canal and I screamed to no one in particular, "I have to get this baby out!  I have to get this baby out right now!"

 

"Do you feel like you're ready to push?"

 

"YES!!!"

 

"Okay, Mad, you remember how this goes–when you feel that next contraction, go ahead and push along with that contraction."

 

And fifteen seconds later the baby was out, and I felt much better.

 

(Just to be clear, I do recommend screaming while you're pushing a baby out.  But not until then.)

 

So as you all know by now, the baby was a girl–much to our relief, since we still didn't have a boy's name picked out–and she was perfectly healthy.  I can tell you, there is no better feeling in the world than that of not pushing a baby out of your body.  It's better than ice cream.  Better than hot fudge sundaes.  The contrast from one moment to the next is so, so very exhilirating.  SD said he wished he had a camera so he could capture the look on my face once the baby was born.  Apparently I give off a very arrogant vibe.  Like I'm the first woman ever to give birth and I just so freaking rock my own world.  I don't remember any of that.  I just remember loving the fact that it was over.

 

It was at that point that I noticed this very nice Asian woman between my legs, delivering the placenta, and that she didn't look at all like Dr. S–at least not as I remembered him a few minutes before, tall, white and bearded–and I thought I should know who she was, so I said, "What's your name?"  She laughed and said she was Dr. F, and she was covering for the midwives that evening.  She had just had time to pull on her gloves and catch the baby, so we hadn't been introduced, which made me feel less guilty for not remembering her.

 

So that's about 47 more paragraphs than that story deserves, but it should hold you for the duration of my Xanga maternity leave, which–you know me–shall be of indeterminate length for a good reason.  I only tell you of my intentions so that you won't be alarmed if you don't hear from me for weeks on end, but neither should you be surprised if I come back tomorrow and every day after that with more of my narcissistic ramblings.  There's a lot more where this came from.

"A girl???  My wish came true!"

–Princess Zurg

 

 

Madhousebaby

Born 23 November 2005 at 8:01 p.m.

6 lbs., 10 oz.

18 inches

19 Days Left!  That's like, less than 20!  Do you understand what that means????

I'll be glad when I'm no longer pregnant and can stop mass-producing every bodily fluid known to woman (except breastmilk–but then I've always had a hard time mass-producing that).  I was getting very depressed over my weight gain thusfar (almost ten pounds more than I've ever weighed in my life), until I realized that at least seven pounds of this has to be mucous.  I've been living with my typical maternity post-nasal drip since before the pregnancy test came back positive (one of the things that inspired the taking of the pregnancy test in the first place), but now it's just out of control.  My nose is totally congested, but I'm not sick.  I do not have a virus.  I feel fine, except that I'm extremely annoyed by the mass quantities of snot I've got here.  It doesn't show any signs of letting up, and I fear I will be going into yet another labor and delivery with compromised breathing abilities.  Well, at least I won't be coughing up a lung between contractions this time. 

 

Speaking of labor and delivery, I'm starting to get very nervous, now that it's only three weeks (possibly less!) away.  I wasn't scared of labor with my first baby because I didn't know what to expect.  I mean, I had this vague notion of extreme pain, but that's nothing compared to the empirical knowledge I've gained since then.  I was crying in terror when I arrived at the hospital with Mister Bubby (still in utero), and one of the nurses said, "You've done this before, why are you so scared?"  I thought that was an odd thing to say.  Anyway, I've gotten scared earlier and earlier with every pregnancy because each previous delivery has left an indelible memory of extreme pain–which, curiously, I am able to suppress when I think, "Gee, maybe I should get pregnant again," but not when I'm 37 weeks along and can't breathe through my nose.  Nature is tricky that way.

 

Princess Zurg was asking me about childbirth the other day.  She wanted to know how the baby came out.  So I took a deep breath and told her the truth, because I was in one of those moods.  ("Did you tell her you pushed it out of your [euphimism]?" Sugar Daddy asked me later.  Yes, I did.  "What did she think about that?"  She thought it was odd.)  I'm not sure if she believed me, but she seemed to be more interested in why there was all that goop on the baby when it was born.  (She's seen pictures.) 

 

"Well," I said, "some of it's blood–"

 

"Your blood or the baby's blood?"

 

"My blood."

 

"Do you bleed when you have a baby?"

 

"Well–yes."

 

"A little or a lot?"

 

(Mom pauses briefly to contemplate the implications of what she's about to say, has to stop and blow her nose and loses her train of thought.)

 

"A lot," I answer.  "But not too much," I quickly add.

 

"Does it hurt?"

 

"Yes."

 

"A little or a lot?"

 

"A lot."  Then, committed as I am to the natural childbirth philosophy, I quickly add, "But there's medicine they can give you so it doesn't hurt so much."  (That's what I've heard, anyway.)

 

"Does it take all the pain away?"

 

"Umm…"

 

"Do you get medicine so it doesn't hurt so much?"

 

"Um, no," I say, knowing full well what question is coming next.

 

"Why not?"

 

Good question, my daughter.  Why not, indeed.  As much as I'm enjoying this frank discussion, I don't feel compelled to share my more cynical reasons for never opting for the old epidural, so I babble some idealistic crap about wanting the full experience and how the pain helps me to have the baby, blah blah blah, but here's the whole truth:

 

1)  I don't believe the epidural is going to work.  My theory is that there's a strong faith component in any medical or health treatment, which is why some people swear by magnets but can't get any results from antibiotics and vice versa.  I really think the Powers That Be are not going to permit me a pain-free delivery.  I'm not worthy.

 

2)  The epidural will work, but only in some monkey-paw way, like it'll numb the left side of my body and leave the right side to suffer the full brunt of the assault.

 

3)  The epidural will work, but it will work too well–like I'll sleep through labor and they'll have to wake me up to push, which will be the last freaking thing on earth I'll want to do when I'm in the middle of this incredible nap.  I am not a morning person.

 

So what I'm hoping for is another quick labor like I had with Mister Bubby, which was terrifying, but when it was over, I lay there in the hospital bed thinking, "Well–that was exciting"–rather than my thoughts after having Elvis (ten hours of labor without benefit of my nasal airways), which were more along the lines of "That might possibly be the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life."

 

I'm also hoping that I don't gain any more weight over the next three weeks because I can barely haul around my fat sinuses as it is. 

Friday

 

Princess Zurg woke up at about 5:30 in the morning and started throwing up.  As I believe I've blogged before, my children are physiologically incapable of standing in one place while they throw up.  As soon as they feel the bile start to rise, they go into panic mode and run around the house, covering all the carpeted areas with whatever they've failed to fully digest that day.  I have a running list of things I should not feed my children until they learn to puke in a porcelain bowl, and salmon just rocketed to #2, right behind grilled cheese sandwiches.  (It's been five years since the Great Grilled Cheese Incident, but it still makes me shudder.  Shudder.)  Most fruits, on the other hand, are relatively pleasant.  (When you've cleaned up as much vomit as I have, you can say that sort of thing with a straight face.)

 

Anyway, I know it's Monday morning and you don't want to hear any more about barfing.  Suffice it to say that the splatter effect my children manage to get on carpet is exceptional.  Exceptional.

 

Saturday

 

It's all a big blur, to tell you the truth.  Sugar Daddy and I did finish watching Alias Season 4, and I can only say one thing.  Well, I'll say two things.  That show is absurd–in the sense of being really freaking awesome.  But that season's cliffhanger was the most effed-up, lame, and frustrating one ever.  It makes me not even want to watch Season 5.  I am that upset.  No, don't tell me what happens in Season 5!  I don't want to know!  I swear I'll block you for life if you tell me anything.  Ooh, I'm getting tough now.  I've never threatened you all like that before.  Hope it didn't scare you.

 

Sunday

 

Here's the first 20 minutes of church.  Whispered but unfortunately still very audible lines are in italics:

 

Mister Bubby:  I'm huuuunnnnngwyyyyyy.

 

Giraffemom:  That's interesting.

 

MB:  I need bweakfaaaasssst.

 

GM:  Just a minute.

 

MB:  I'm huuuunnnnnngwyyyyy.

 

GM:  Hang on a minute.  Just hang on.

 

Princess Zurg:  Why do we always have to go to church?  Church is so long.  Church should only be one second.  There.  It's over.  Why do you always make us go to church?  I'm hungry.

 

GM:  Please be quiet!

 

PZ:  I'm going now.

 

GM:  Fine.

 

PZ:  By myself.  Alone.

 

GM:  Fine.  Good.

 

PZ:  I'm leaving.

 

GM:  Fine, just do it!

 

PZ:  Okay.  (Exit PZ)

 

MB:  Mommy, I'm hungwy.  I need food.

 

GM:  Fine, eat something.  I don't care.  Just be quiet.  Please.

 

(A little while later…)

 

Elvis:  I NEED MY CHEEYOS!  I NEED MY CHEEYOS!

 

GM:  They're on the floor.  They're gone.  You've got plenty of Cheerios.  Just eat them.  Sh!

 

Elvis:  I NEED MY CHEEYOS!  I CAN'T WEACH DEM!

 

GM:  Sh!  It's okay.  Let them go!

 

Elvis:  PEASE GET DEM FOR ME!

 

GM:  I can't!  I can't reach them!  Just eat what you've got.  There are so many, look, you don't need those other Cheerios–

 

Elvis:  I NEED MY CHEEYOS!

 

GM:  Fine!  Crawl under the bench and get them!  Just be quiet!

 

(Later…)

 

MB:  Mommy, did you pack yellow goldfish?

 

GM:  Yes.

 

MB:  Which one has more in it?

 

GM:  They both have the same.  Just eat them!  Eat one of them!  Pick one, I don't care!

 

MB:  Is this one bigger?

 

GM:  I don't know!  I don't care! 

 

(Elvis dives off the pew, slams his head smack on the floor, spilling his Cheerios, and starts screaming.)

 

GM:  Great.  (Picks up Elvis to take him to the foyer)  No, no–nobody move.  Everyone sit on the floor or put your legs out to trip the eight-month-pregnant woman carrying 40 pounds of two-year-old.  It's better this way, trust me.

 

Elvis:  I NEED MY CHEEYOS!

 

(Curtain)

 

 

 

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It got better.  But I was still glad when it was over.  As always.

 

And now the medical update:

 

So wearing the wrist splints has helped to a large extent, but my middle finger on my right hand still feels like I rammed it into a brick wall at 40 mph, then stuck the tip of it in the freezer for about half an hour.  I think that's weird.  My fingers are still periodically fat, but usually not.  What's new is that my feet have also decided to get fat.  My feet do not usually swell during pregnancy.  Actually, they never have.  I always anticipated that they would swell, and I'd take off my toe rings in my first trimester as a precautionary measure, but my feet never did swell, and I think I just kept them on during my Elvis pregnancy.  I didn't even think about removing them this time until I looked down at my feet last night and discovered that I was about to lose two toes if I didn't take immediate action.  It wasn't pleasant, but I got them off (the rings, not the toes), and while my feet are still fat, they're all in one piece. 

 

My feet don't look good fat.  Which is really bothering me because my feet are ordinarily very attractive.  No, really.  Everyone says so.  At least they used to.  I hope I can still fit into my tap shoes after this is over.  For that matter, I hope I regain feeling in my third finger on the right hand.  I think I'm going to need it.

You Are Chinese Food 

 

 

 

Exotic yet ordinary.

 

People think they've had enough of you, but they're back for more in an hour.

 

 

What Kind of Food Are You?

Have I mentioned before that these quizzes have me totally pegged?

So last week I noticed that my hands were getting swollen.  My feet were fine, but my hands were puffy.  My fingers looked short because they were so fat.  I thought it was weird that only my hands were affected, but I wasn't worried until it became difficult to use my hands, and then my hands started hurting, and then my hands started going numb.  My right was worse off than my left (not surprisingly, since I'm right-handed), and the pain was spreading up to my elbow, kind of like carpal tunnel syndrome.  I had carpal tunnel syndrome about eleven or twelve years ago, when I was working as a typist full-time, but I haven't been engaging in repetitive-motion activities as of late, unless the day-in/day-out drudgery of my life counts as repetitive motion.  So this was curious.  Anyway, I called one of those "health professionals" to see if I was, you know, "dying" or something, and they said it was possible the baby was putting stress on some nerve or whatever, and I should try wrist splints and see if that helped. 

So I bought a wrist splint last night at the Target.  I also bought a new purse.  Well, not a purse exactly, but one of those purses that's actually a backpack, only it's a purse because you can't take it hiking.  Well, you could, but it would be dumb, unless you went hiking at the mall or something.  It's funny because for years and years and years owning the same freaking purse, but since I started having babies I have gone through about a dozen different diaper bags of various styles, and in the past year I have purchased three of these backpack/purse thingies, hoping I had finally stumbled upon the single most practical accessory for my carrying-crap-around lifestyle.  It couldn't be too big, or I'd just stuff it with way more crap than I needed.  It couldn't be too small, or it couldn't take the stress of me overstuffing it with just a little more crap than I needed.  Anyway, I convinced myself that this bag selling for $19.99 at Target was something I needed even if I didn't technically "need" it because for all I knew, my overloaded bag I was currently carrying on my back could be the cause of all my woes in the first place.  You thought I'd abruptly changed the subject, didn't you?  No, this had to do with my wrist splint all along.

So I put on my wrist splint when I got home.  I'm never sure how to wear these things.  They say it should be "snug" but not "tight."  Well, for sure I don't want to lose any more feeling in my fingers, so I know I don't want it to be "tight."  But at what point does "snug" become "tight"?  I understand it should feel comfortable, but is my "comfortably snug" really just "nay, not snug, but loose," or have I gone so numb in both arms that "comfortably snug" is actually "tight" and I'm going to lose my hand over this?  Anyway, this just added to my anxiety and made me all the more glad I'd bought myself a new bag because you never know what's going to happen.

So I wore the splint to bed, like they told me to, and this morning was the first in several days that I haven't woken up with completely numb hands.  They still hurt, though, which is kind of a bummer, and actually it was probably a bad idea to blog about it because all this typing is making my fingers go numb.  Also, my children are probably tearing up my kitchen right about now, so adieu, gentle readers.  Enjoy your long weekend without mail service.

1)  How is it, in this day and age, that when you say the word "midwife," so many people immediately conclude that you've chosen to have a home birth facilitated by some non-English-speaking woman sacrificing a chicken over your womb? 

 

2)  Why don't OB/GYN offices ever have magazines other than Parents, Parenting, and Child? 

 

3)  Who subscribes to these magazines, and why?

 

4)  How did I gain six pounds in two weeks?  Don't answer that!

Last night I dreamed (dreamt?) that I had the baby, and it was a boy.  This is the second time I've dreamt (dreamed?) the baby was a boy.  I don't think it means anything, except maybe that I'm having a boy.  Anyway, I had the baby and brought him home, and my whole family was there–I mean, the family I had growing up.  Interestingly enough, none of my other children was there, and Sugar Daddy was nowhere to be seen for much of the dream.  Anyway (again), my family kept trying to feed the baby spaghetti.  This is a newborn, a few days old, and they're trying to feed him spaghetti.  I said, "You know, I really only have to feed him breastmilk for the first 4-6 months.  He doesn't need any spaghetti."  And my mother (who was alive in this dream) said, "Oh, I know you did that with the other three, but this one really seems hungry for something else."  And I said, "Maybe it's because you haven't let me nurse him more than twice since I've come home.  You keep whisking him away for spaghetti."  And my sister said–as she was spooning pasta with tomato sauce into my newborn's mouth–"Oh, Mad, stop freaking out.  It's just spaghetti."

 

What was freaking me out was that I knew my baby should not be eating spaghetti, but for some reason I couldn't just say, "Hey!  I'm the mother here!  Stop feeding my baby spaghetti, you freaks!"  (And why are you all in my house?  Where are my other kids?  Why aren't you still dead, Mom?)  It was really disturbing.  Then I finally found SD, who was reading on the couch, and I said, "SD, have we picked out a name for this baby yet?"  And he said, "Uhh…no," and went back to reading.  And I continued to worry about the spaghetti and the fact that the baby hadn't breastfed in several hours.

 

I told SD about this dream this morning, and he said he had a dream that the Harriet Miers nomination was withdrawn.  He always has to have better dreams than me.

 

 

 

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I'm registering for the hospital, and I'm looking through all the brochures and papers they give you, and there's a newspaper birth announcement form that I find a little over the top.  It asks for the parents' names and the baby's name, date of birth, blah blah, you know, the normal stuff, but additionally it asks for the time of birth, the weight, the length, the siblings' names, the grandparents' names, the great-grandparents' names–and I'm thinking, "Who the freak cares about all this?"  I mean, I care, but does the greater
Portland area care?  How can they possibly have room to print all of this information? 

 

I used to be responsible for the birth announcements when I worked at the newspaper, and it was a tedious job, but the thing that bothered me the most was when parents would ask me to notify them when the announcement was going to run–which I was willing to do, when I had the time–but when I called them, as soon as I identified myself, they assumed I was trying to sell them the paper, and they'd hang up on me.  Needless to say, I did not call them back, and they did not know when their birth announcement ran.  The happiest day of my life was when one mother called to ask about her announcement and I got to say, "Yes, that ran about three weeks ago.  I tried to call you to let you know, but you hung up on me."  Sorry.

 

 

 

——————————————————————————–

 

 

SD and I have tentatively decided on a boy's name, so I was feeling okay about having a boy, but the dorkus had to tell his mother what the name was, and she said she hates it.  Well, I don't really care if she hates it, but I care that she feels obligated to tell us she hates it.  I suppose it doesn't matter because everyone in his family feels obligated to tell us they hate the baby's name, even after the baby's been born, the birth certificate's filled out, we've blessed him in church, and he's about to start kindergarten.  On my side of the family, they have the decency to talk about it behind my back.  Except for my step-mother, who doesn't really talk about it so much to our faces, but when she comes to visit the baby, she'll talk to the baby and let him know that our parenting leaves much to be desired, and she's very sorry he has such an awful name.

 

In all honesty, I'm not in love with the name we've picked for this one, so I don't need this further discouragement.  I can just hope my dreams about the baby being a boy are as accurate as the dreams I had about Elvis being a girl. 

 

 

 

——————————————————————————–

 

 

I also have a form here to outline my birth plan.  It's pretty open-ended.  I'm not too picky about my birthing experience.  I mean, beyond the basics, I don't have any special requests, like live studio audiences or relaxing music (pfft!) or scented candles.  When I was getting near my due date with Elvis, my midwife asked how involved SD wanted to be with the delivery, and I said, "Well…he definitely wants to be there."  And she said, "How does he feel about stuff like cutting the cord, helping bring the baby out, etc.?"

 

"Oh, he'd probably think that was cool."

 

"And how do you feel about that?" she asked earnestly.

 

Confused, I just shook my head and said, "What do I care?"

 

I don't think the midwife was prepared for that response because she just about peed her pants laughing.

 

I'm really tired of being pregnant.

Today I screamed so hard at my kids that I wet myself. 

 

I'm sure I'll find this funny later, but at the time it did nothing to ameliorate my ticked-offness.  I realize that screaming is not an effective parenting technique, just as I'm aware that doing 250 Kegel exercises per day will strengthen my perineal muscles and alleviate much of that incontinence problem.  Trouble is, after giving birth to three kids, I'm not sure I have any perineal muscles left to strengthen, which severely compromises my ability to do Kegels.  And hold my water.  And seven and a half years of being treated like crap by people much shorter than me has severely compromised my ability to resist the temptation to scream during stressful periods.

 

I try not to scream because it hurts my throat, but sometimes I am just too angry to cry.  Not that I enjoy crying much more than screaming, as crying causes me to clog my sinuses and aggravate my prenatal post-nasal drip.  But I digress. 

 

Nobody pays a bit of heed to a word I say around here.  They either ignore me or they yell at me and call me names and start hitting me (or each other–they really don't care).  I can't pay anyone to obey me.  When I was a kid, I didn't dare ignore or defy my parents so blatantly and offensively, and it's no mystery why this was so.  I knew if I ever even tried to pull such crap, they would destroy me.  My mother's stern admonitions were a lot more persuasive than mine are because disregarding them usually led to having the bejeesus kicked out of you.  QED.

 

Yes, I loved my parents (and I knew that my parents loved me), but I also feared them.  Literally.  They could hurt me.  I imagine lots of professionals think it isn't healthy to have your children fear you, but that's neither here nor there.  That's how it was.  I myself don't have the temperament to use corporal punishment in moderation–if I let myself touch my kids when they were ticking me off, I would certainly regret it.  However, I don't have the talent for effectively using "time-out" either.  I'm very interested to meet the children who appreciate the lessons of time-out.  I'm interested in meeting the kids who stay in time-out for any appreciable length of time, whether they learn anything from the experience or not.  My offpring won't stay in time-out for as much as one second unless I sit on them, which to me sort of defeats the purpose of avoiding corporal punishment in the first place. 

 

Anyway, it would appear that my children disobey because they can "get away with it."  I don't know.  They can certainly get away without bodily injury.  There are consequences (though not of the time-out variety, of course) in this house for misbehaving, but nobody learns from the experience.  It just deepens their sense of victimization, which makes them even more ticked off.  Sort of like when I get so frustrated that I start screaming and peeing on myself.  At least the kids still have their bladder control.

So I spent most of the last 36 hours battling what might have been food poisoning, an overachieving 24-hour stomach flu, or simply the dietary justice meted out to those who consume Double Fudge Brownie ice cream and Cheetos before they go to bed.  Whatever it was, I can tell you that churning stomach + hyperactive fetus = bad.

 

Add to the mix three children who don't understand the meaning of "Mommy is sick and you're all heartless ******** for screaming at her when she doesn't get your juice/band-aid/Star Wars Cheerio cereal (excuse me, puking) as fast as you think she ought to" and I think the solution is something with mathematical symbols I'm incapable of reproducing here.  To his credit, however, once Elvis saw me fully reclined and sobbing on the La-Z-Boy in the living room, he immediately went into Florence Nightingale mode.  First he got me a blanket.  Then he brought me some water (which I didn't want, but he insisted).  Then he brought me a stuffed giraffe and, for some reason, his toy light saber.  Then he brought me some reading material.  Then he played me some music.  Then he started climbing on me and throwing things at me.  Well, it was nice while it lasted.

 

I feel better today, which is good because Sugar Daddy left for
Arizona again this morning, and will be gone for the rest of the week.  I had some really effed-up dreams last night, though, including one in which I went to the free clinic in the wee hours of the morning, and, as long as I was in the neighborhood, decided to go shopping at the (apparently) 24-Hour Jennifer Lopez Natural Foods Store.  I don't know why I would dream about such a thing because I'm sure I only spend about 0% of my average day thinking about Jennifer Lopez, but there it is.  Anyway, while I was there I picked up some multi-grain bread flour and J. Lo's special Protein Powder, which turned out to be dehydrated bananas, but it was pretty tasty nonetheless.  Well, that comes later.  While I was still at the store, pondering the nutritional wisdom of Jennifer Lopez, I realized that it was 6:10 a.m. and SD's plane was supposed to leave at 6:40, and I'd just left him at home with all the kids and unless he'd found a sitter at 5 in the morning, there was no way he was going to make it.

 

Long story short, I suddenly had a cell phone and managed to work everything out so that SD could get to
Arizona, at great inconvenience to everyone but myself.  Needless to say, I felt terribly guilty and knew that I would never live this one down.  I can't tell you how many times I then dreamed that I woke up wondering if this had actually happened, and if it had, where were my powdered bananas?  A rough night, to be sure.

 

But now I'm awake, J. Lo's powdered protein bananas a thing of the past, alone with my children and a mostly-functioning digestive system.  Tonight is my last tap class of the term, and possibly my last tap class until after the baby is born.  I'm already having balance issues, and add to that the fact that tap dancing tends to result in a full uterus bouncing up and down on one's bladder, and I just don't think I'm going to make the Third Trimester Tipsy Tappers Team this season.  No worries, though.  Assuming the actual birth doesn't kill me, I can start again in January.

 

Speaking of the actual birth, I also dreamed last night that I had the baby, and it was, of course, a boy.  Unfortunately, I can't remember what I named him, and I'm really ticked off–especially since I still can't shake the taste of those stupid bananas.  My subconscious has no sense of priorities.

SD's in
Arizona until Saturday.

 

I gained eight pounds in four weeks.

 

I have two pies in my refrigerator that I will have to eat all by myself.

 

I changed my mind about Arrested Development, and now I'm totally into it.  Stupid TV.

 

I am over my Cheeto addiction.

 

I have begun my fudge brownie addiction.  (Well, picked up where I left off, actually, but who's keeping track?)

 

I had an ultrasound today.  I am not having twins.

 

No, I don't know what gender it is, but SD and I have finally settled on a girl's name, so I'm pretty sure it's going to be a boy.

 

Rejected family names for boys:  Esper,
Clyde, Dwight, Osborne, Bert

 

Boy names rejected by SD:  Harold, Noah, Stephen

 

Boy names rejected by Mad:  Luke Skywalker, Ernie

 

Must.  Nap.

"Hi, I'm pregnant, but I only intend to gain 10 pounds the whole time I'm gestating." 

 

"My belly may be huge but my thighs are still totally trim and toned–no cellulite here, kids!" 

 

"Don't look at my waistline–look at my breasts!" 

 

"This fabric is so unbelievably garish and tacky that it deserves a bigger-than-average venue." 

 

"I really want to look like a fat cow.  Mooooooo." 

A Mind Is a Terrible Thing To Lose

 

Princess Zurg: Mom! I can't find any pants!

 

Giraffemom: You have pants in that pile of laundry in the living room. Your blue capris are right there.

 

PZ: Where are they?

 

GM: They're right there on the floor, next to your foot.

 

PZ: Where?

 

GM: Right next to your foot. The other foot.

 

PZ: Here?

 

GM: No. Next to your foot. Not that foot, the other foot. Right there on the floor. Turn around! Look down, on the floor, right next to your foot. You're standing on them!

 

PZ: Where?

 

GM: Right there! Under your foot! You are standing on it! No, look down! On the floor! That blue thing under your foot! Your foot! The other foot! What you're standing on! My God, I'm going insane! Don't make me come over there and pull them out from under your feet!

 

PZ: Oh. These?

 

 

——————————————————————————–

 

 

TMI Post of the Day: Pregnancy Gives You Big Knockers

 

Sugar Daddy: Those are amazing. They're huge.

 

Madhousewife: Enjoy them while they last, because when they're gone, they're gone.

 

SD: Unless the Republicans stay in office and make them mandatory.

 

MH: I suppose.

 

SD: I like them. They're like limited edition candy bars.

 

MH: What?

 

SD: You know, they're different, they're only around for a short time, they're fun, and then they're gone. They're like the McRib.

 

MH: Right. Okay. Okay.

 

 

——————————————————————————–

 

 

Come On, Baby, Light My Fire

 

Elvis: Mommy! Open this, please!

 

Giraffemom: What? WHAT? Matches? Where did you get matches?

 

E: Help me! Open this!

 

GM: I'm not opening this! Are you out of your mind? Good grief, how do you do this? Where were these?

 

E: Fireworks, Mommy!

 

GM: Fireworks! OMG, where are the fireworks???

 

Sugar Daddy and I are having trouble agreeing on a name for the new baby. We still have a few months, of course, but it still bothers me. I used to have a huge list of names I wanted to use, and I thought I could never possibly have enough children to use up all the good names in the world. Well, I was wrong. Apparently there are only three good names in the world, and I've already used them. Just kidding. There are plenty of good names in the world, but none of them is speaking to me right now. I'm hoping that we don't have another boy because the only boy name SD will consider right now is David, and I'm just not in love with David. (No offense to any Davids who might be reading this blog.) Please don't misunderstand me–David is a fine name. Lots of good Davids in the world. We personally know about 500 Davids, and they're all great, and we never snicker when we address them. I just don't feel that David is my child's name. Also, it's an extremely popular name–not that there's anything wrong with popularity! My husband has a wonderful first name which has been in the top ten baby name list for about a generation, but I don't want my kid to be one of three Davids in his class. That's just kind of a bummer. Don't you think?

 

When I was low woman on the totem pole at the newspaper, I edited the birth announcements. That year there were about four different girls' names people were using. Period. Seriously, I got very bored with this job because there was so little variety. The thing that annoyed me most, though, was when people would give their daughter one of the four names but use some wacky spelling in an attempt to make the name unique. Sorry, kids, but Khaitlynne, Kaytelin, and Ca'Tlynn are all the same name. Hayleigh is still Hailey. Auston and Austyn are still
Austin. SD has his father to thank for not having the middle name "Mykl." When his mom suggested that as an alternative to the then-extremely-common Michael, Dad said, "Over my dead body." Way to save Western civilization, Dad.

 

So long story short, I don't want to name my kid David, and SD doesn't want to name his kid Harold, so we are at an impasse. We must have a girl. Even then, I think I'm going to have to play my uterus card to get the name I really want. Either way, we're sure to disappoint Princess Zurg, who insists that we need to name the new baby Fairy Face if it's a girl and Holy Moses if it's a boy. I told her I'd put those on the list. A very short list.

 

And no, I won't tell you when we do decide on a name, because I don't believe in telling people what a baby's name is before the birth certificate is filled out and the Social Security office has been notified. Otherwise, people think they have a vote. In our family, people still think they have a vote, until the kid's about four months old. Then they finally accept reality and move on. (I think they even stop talking trash about us behind our backs, but I can't be sure.)

I prefer glazed doughnuts to powdered, raspberry-filled to lemon-filled, which put me in a dilemma at the Safeway bakery counter this morning.  They had lemon-filled glazed doughnuts and raspberry-filled powdered doughnuts, but no raspberry-filled glazed doughnuts, which was unfortunate because that was what I really wanted, and neither doughnut that was available was going to satisfy me.  So what to do, what to do–satisfy the raspberry craving and put up with the powder, satisfy the glazed craving and put up with the lemon, or just forget the whole thing because doughnuts are bad for me anyway?  Ha ha, that last part was a joke.  Hee hee hee–sigh.  Funny one, though.  Anyway, if you don't know how this story ends, you don't know me.  Suffice it to say, I can put up with just about anything as long as it's a doughnut.  Except sprinkles.  I really don't like sprinkles.  They're kind of obnoxious.

 

Speaking of doughnuts, I've been thinking about that one restaurant that makes a hamburger served between two Krispy Kremes.  The reason that whole thing bothers me so much is not just that the thought of mixing ground beef with doughnuts thoroughly nauseates me, but that it's just so gratuitous.  I mean, really.  Something like that could only be consumed for the sake of sin itself.  It can't be a pleasurable experience.  Just another disgusting example of the moral depravity of our culture.  But I digress.

 

So whilst I was in the checkout line I checked out some of the tabloids because that's what I do, and I was thinking that Lindsay Lohan looked a lot better when she still had her "baby fat."  Judging from the before and after pictures of Nicole Richie, whom I never have occasion to see except when the Star tells me how concerned I should be about her weight, she looked a lot better with twenty more pounds on her, too.  Now I'm not saying these girls are anorexic or they must have gone on some dangerous diet because I don't know them and, well, I'm just not that personally invested in their health or their careers.  I just think they were more attractive with meat on their bones.  I don't say that to be all PC or start getting down on the patriarchy–I tend to think most men prefer women with breasts, even if they have to take a little stomach with them–it's just an aesthetic thing.  If Lindsay Lohan's just dropping weight for no reason in particular, I'd advise her to go on a strict diet of foods high in carbs and fat because she's such a pretty girl and it's really a shame that she's let herself go like that.

 

I should take her shopping at the bakery counter at Safeway.  Show her how it's done.

 

Up until I was about 21 years old, I thought being underweight would be a terrific problem to have.  Not to mention something straight out of sci-fi, as far as my thighs were concerned.  Then I dropped a dress size and I just didn't think about my weight again until about ten years later, soon after I'd weaned Mister Bubby after seventeen months of breastfeeding and realized that I weighed about ten pounds less than I ever had in my adult (or teenage) life and that I looked like hell.  I thought my thyroid must be out of whack because nothing I ate made much difference, but my thyroid was fine, and then I got pregnant and gained weight sufficient for everyone's needs, and I haven't given my weight much thought since then.  Could I stand to lose a few–if, you know, I wasn't currently pregnant again?  Eh, I don't really know.  I've seen prettier thighs in my day (not usually on me, of course).  But I do have a vivid memory of stepping out of the shower one morning and seeing this gaunt figure in the mirror and being somewhat horrified and grossed out.  I look a heck of a lot better now than I did then, and I did it all without exercising.  I should be Lindsay Lohan's next personal trainer.

So last night Sugar Daddy lovingly informed me–after he very sweetly went out and bought me the Thai food that I was craving–that he understood that I've been sick and he's willing to do more than his fair share while I'm sick, but he didn't think I was so sick that I was incapable of throwing away my empty pudding cup or putting my breakfast bowl in the sink.  And I, of course, just about died laughing.  Not on the outside, of course–only on the inside, where it's safe to laugh at a man when he acts like a woman.

 

There's no way, of course, for a woman to lovingly inform her husband that she understands that he works hard all day and he's tired but she doesn't think he's too tired to say, toss his dirty socks in the laundry hamper or put his empty popsicle wrapper and stick in the trash rather than the sofa.  No, regardless of the tone of voice she uses, asking a man to do something unrelated to sex is called nagging, and nagging is wrong.  Women nag.  Men make reasonable requests.  Do you have that down, kids? 

 

Dear me, it's been ages since I've listened to Dr. Laura, but I'll never forget the woman who called in complaining that her husband was so lazy that he wouldn't throw his peach pit in the trash, he'd just leave it wherever, like she was the maid or something, and Dr. Laura said the reason he did that was because she didn't make him feel important enough, so he made himself feel important by refusing to dispose properly of his peach pit.  I don't remember exactly what transpired after that, but she probably told the woman that if she wasn't going to put out more, she should get used to throwing away her man's peach pits.  Or something like that.

 

So, being the new man of the house–at least as long as I'm sick, which apparently is as close as I'll get to a sex change operation–I thought I should heed the wisdom of that study that was done a few years ago that found that the happiest marriages were those in which the husband always acquiesced to the wife.  I think it was called the Yes Dear Study.  So instead of saying, "Dude, get off my back about the pudding cups until you get your socks off my dining room table," I decided to be a mensch and just say, "Yes, dear."

 

Actually, what I really said was that I only left my empty pudding cups on the kitchen counter (note–not the sofa) because he wasn't making me feel important enough.  And he said, "You're gonna feel important when I shove this Thai food up your butt."  And then we had a good laugh while we each silently plotted revenge.

 

I have some dirty socks to wash and some pudding to eat (responsibly, of course).

For clarity's sake, children, I should have made it clear that the Big Satan is Sugar Daddy's employer–in real life, a very large, well-known company with a reputation for working their employees into early graves so they can increase their profit margin, like the capitalist scum they are.  They aren't actually that bad.  Everyone who works there just likes to complain about this corporation, which is why I refer to it, facetiously, as the Big Satan.  No, there isn't really a Church of the Devil in the
Portland suburbs plotting to gain favor and influence with the public by giving away cheap crap with its logo imprinted on it.  Not literally, anyway.

 

A while back SD bought a carpet shampooer–is that a word?  A steamcleaner.  You know, one of those things that cleans your carpets with water and soap.  Anyway, he showed it to the kids–gave a full demonstration of its powers on the living room carpet–and they were fascinated and impressed to the extreme, especially Elvis.  SD told them it was a "Super Vacuum."  For about a week or so afterward, Elvis would get up in the morning and ask to see the Super Vacuum.  Even now, every time we go into the garage, where the Super Vacuum components are stored, he gets all excited and says, "Super Vacuum!  Super Vacuum!"  He's almost as enamored with the thing as his father is.

 

Well, now he's taken it into his head that the new package of diapers we bought at the Target–the same brand we've always bought him, only now they have Care Bears on them–are Super Diapers.  He won't wear the diapers with the old mascots on them because those are just ordinary diapers.  He requires Super Diapers.  Well, at least now I don't have to chase him around the house begging him to let me change his diaper.  He volunteers for it now.

 

For those of you who are wondering, a Hostess Fruit Pie does not have the same therapeutic value as a jelly-filled pastry.  I will keep you posted on my continuing scientific studies of baked goods consumption in pregnancy.  Today I will be conducting experiments on Krispy Kremes.

 

Elvis' new phrases (besides Super Vacuum):

 

"I can't take it!"

 

"Not for babies."  (Important to chant whilst rummaging through items that are unsafe or none of your business.)

 

"Crikey!"

 

"Man alive!"

I had a great day last Thursday.  I woke up, ate breakfast, took my medication, and brushed my teeth with my new cinnamon tooth paste.  My new cinnamon toothpaste has saved my dental health for this pregnancy.  I was getting to where even the thought of putting that yucky green Colgate in my mouth was making me vomit.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes.  I even drank some water that day.  I was feelin' lucky, kids!  Then I dropped the boys at a friend's house and went to my first appointment with my new midwife. 

 

I'm sad that this baby can't be delivered by the same midwife who delivered Elvis.  But not very sad, I guess, since the reason she can't deliver the new baby is that she's in
Eugene and I'm not.  I mean, I'm glad not to be in
Eugene anymore, no offense to it.  My advice to all pregnant women in the
Eugene area is to see Kathie Hill at McKenzie Midwifery because she is the bestest midwife ever.  Tell her Elvis' mom sent you.  And she will say, "Er…okay."

 

But this new midwife is nice, too.  I think I'll keep her.  The only uncomfortable part of the appointment was when //SQEUAMISH AVERT YOUR EYES FOR THE REST OF THIS PARAGRAPH// she gave me a Pap smear and wanted to chitchat through the whole thing.  I appreciate that she was just trying to distract me and/or make it seem less awkward, or whatever, but I just don't deal with pelvic exams in that way.  I like to use all my mental capabilities concentrating on not thinking about a metal contraption cranking apart my womanhood.  Gosh, that looks even more disgusting in print than it does in person.  Anyway, if I have to use any brain cells to form intelligible answers to whatever questions the person behind the speculum is posing, I am unable to devote my full brain power to ignoring the speculum itself.  That may not make sense to you, but it's the method to my madness.  Strangely enough, while I was trying to explain the history behind my daughter's troubles with the first grade, I found it impossible not to notice that someone was scraping my cervix.  I also found it difficult to form complete sentences.  You wouldn't think this would be so much like a dental hygienist asking questions while her fingers are in my mouth, but for some reason it is.

 

Okay, it's safe to read again.  When I left the midwife, I realized I hadn't eaten anything in a couple hours and that if I didn't eat something very soon, I was going to collapse in a fit of dry heaves and die.  I didn't know what I should eat, so I decided to just listen to my body–those wise old cravings–and get a jelly-filled pastry from the Albertsons bakery.  It was delicious, and I suffered no ill effects.  I had the least nauseated day of my pregnancy thusfar.  I even babysat later that night.

 

The next day, of course, I felt like hell.  I don't know what made the difference–I woke up, ate breakfast, used my cinnamon toothpaste–but of course, I did not have a jelly-filled pastry from the Albertsons bakery.  Coincidence?  We don't think so.

 

Saturday was the Big Satan's annual Open House.  The Big Satan Open House is kind of a big deal.  They offer a tour of the factory, and there's lots of activities for kids.  This year they had a flight simulator thing.  It also looked like you could go for a ride on the cafeteria floor in an ergonomic chair, but my children weren't interested in that.  Every year they have a cookie assembly line which mimics the wafer-making process.  They don't skimp on the oxidation, which is nice, but it's really hard shaking those ions out of the bottle.  You can also dress up in a bunny suit and get your picture taken against a fake factory backdrop.  I did that last year, so I didn't feel the need to do it again, and the kids thought it was just too crazy, so nobody got a bunny suit picture this year. 

 

Whatever.  My favorite part of the Open House is all the Big Satan-promoting loot they give you.  I don't need any of it, but it has the same appeal for me as a trip to the dollar store or a cheap souvenir stand.  I can't resist it.  This year I got several Big Satan pens, Big Satan highlighters, Big Satan stickers, Big Satan bookmarks, and a Big Satan keychain/whistle.  (That baby is all mine.  The kids aren't touching it.)  I also got a Safe Space magnet from the Big Satan LGBT Network.  Last year they gave out pink yo-yos, so I was a little disappointed, but eh, who doesn't need more magnets?  The Native American Big Satan alliance was giving out book lights, but you had to stand in line and take a quiz.  If I'd failed, I would have been so ashamed.

 

Sugar Daddy leaves for
Arizona again today, to do the Big Satan's bidding.  I will be home alone with the kids, protecting my keychain/whistle.

No matter how many times you save the world, it always manages to get back in jeopardy again. Sometimes I just want it to stay saved, you know? For a little bit. I feel like the maid. ''I just cleaned up this mess. Can we keep it clean for ten minutes?''–Mister Incredible

 

The amount of squalor my family will tolerate never ceases to amaze me.  How is this Zen-like attitude achieved?  I guess it's easy when you know that eventually someone-not-you is going to take care of it.  It really doesn't matter how bad it gets if you never have to deal with it.

 

I did the same thing to my poor mother growing up.  I–and to be fair, the rest of the family–had so many other more important things to worry about than whether or not the socks got picked up and put in the laundry or in a drawer or wherever they were supposed to be.  It's no wonder my mother needed psychotropic drugs for most of her life.  Which reminds me, I need to call my psychiatrist today.

 

I began to panic when my mother-in-law was packing to go home on Saturday.  She's not the best housekeeper in the world, but she did do the laundry and the dishes, and most importantly, she served as a supervising adult when I crashed headfirst into my bed every day around 2:30 p.m. and stayed there until the following morning (more or less).  After 24 hours of her absence, I got desperate and thought that it might be a good idea to swallow my pride, not to mention my self-respect and whatever shred of dignity I have left in this world, and ask my step-mother to come up for a visit.  That would mean I'd have to tell her I was pregnant again, but I was going to have to tell her eventually anyway, so was that really so bad?

 

Answer:  Yes.  Yes, it was that bad.

 

She and my dad were both on the phone Sunday night when I broke the news.  First, my father's response:

 

[Unambiguous Groaning Sound]

 

And now my step-mother's response:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I'm still waiting, too.

 

Needless to say, I never got to the part where I tried to make her feel sorry for me and convince her to come up and be my personal servant for the next six weeks.  Which just goes to show you how durable self-respect can be.  Well.  At least that's over.  Now I have to go clean my kitchen before the ants take it over entirely. 

Okay, ixnay on the emonadelay Ool-aidkay.  I'm getting the dry heaves just thinking about it.  Anybody else have some bright ideas for keeping myself hydrated, short of a home IV?

 

The internet is such a useful tool.  I have found all kinds of information on treating nausea during pregnancy.  For example, I could do as one web site suggests and avoid those foods and smells which make me queasy.  [Slaps forehead]  Doh!  It also said I should just eat what I want when I want, and that my cravings won't steer me wrong.  Obviously not, since my cravings tell me it's good to eat Jell-O Instant Pudding cups morning, noon and night.  My cravings also just told me that a chocolate chip cookie would be good, too.  And it was.  I wonder what nutritional wisdom my cravings will come up with next.

It took an hour and a half, but this morning I finally washed all the dishes and cleared away the lion's share of the debris that's been piling up in the kitchen over the last two weeks.  It's so refreshing to walk into the kitchen and be able to see the counters.  They're filthy counters, but at least I can see the filth, and not just the clutter.  I have a thing about clutter.  It's all around me, and yet I never get used to it.

Today's mission is adequate fluid intake.  Yesterday was not a day of adequate fluid intake.  In point of fact, it was a day of severely inadequate fluid intake.  I do not recommend one of those.  It's especially important to have adequate fluid intake today because I have my tap class tonight, and if this afternoon goes anything like the last six afternoons, I should be learning my recital piece curled up on the dance floor in the fetal position with a barf bag by my side at 6:30 p.m.  I'd like to avoid that.  I've always had trouble with adequate fluid intake the first trimester because I completely lose my tolerance for water.  Water, my favorite beverage in the world, is my enemy for the first 12 weeks of pregnancy.  I don't dare consume it now.  The problem is that I'm not fond of flavored beverages, in general.  Juice is too sweet.  When I was pregnant with Mister Bubby, I could only drink lemonade Kool-Aid.  Actual lemonade would have had too much flavor, but lemonade Kool-Aid was just about right.  My crunchy friend told me it grossed her out that I drank Kool-Aid, and she hoped my baby didn't come out purple.  He didn't.  But he does love Kool-Aid.  I know, I should be arrested.  I won't even tell you what I fed them for "dinner" last night.

 

Gotta take advantage of my last hours of functionality.  Ciao.

I need to wean Elvis, or I'm going to die.  I know it's possible for women to nurse children while they're pregnant, and it's possible to do tandem nursing, just as it's possible to have twelve children and homeschool and then adopt twelve more and do daycare on the side–it just isn't possible for me.  I've got to stop breastfeeding, or I'm going to die.

If I don't see any of you all again, goodbye.  You've been great.  I must stop being vertical now.

Another one of those pregnancy truths:  By the time number 4 starts cooking, the muscle tone is shot.  Case in point–baby is no bigger than a grain of rice, but I already need maternity clothes.  That's messed up.

Well, I don't quite need maternity clothes.  What I need is fat clothes, but I don't actually have fat clothes.  My body may not be a wonderland, but it's very stable.&nbs