It is, isn't it?

     Sass Monkey told me last night that, when I had the baby, I was "gonna ESPLODE just like this, Momma!". He then proceeded to throw himself up into the air, flail out all four limbs while making a booming noise, and land face first on the bed in a glorious physical illustration of my impending L&D experience.

I am starting to think he may be right.

     Last Thursday I had the wonderful "It's time!"... "Oh, it's NOT time?  But it sure as hell feels like time!" experience.  In other words, 45 second contractions 5-6 minutes apart for several hours led to a speedy trip to the hospital... of course, minutes before the giant baby shower all the lovely folks at my place of work had planned.  (You should have seen the cake!  Could have fed the entire 101st Airborne Division and had leftovers...)  Anyway... Hubbs and I get to L&D, they stick a gigantic needle in my hand, hook me up like a spider in a web, pump me full of enough fluids to blow me up to roughly the size of a Macy's parade balloon, and then... wait...  The contractions didn't stop.  This is IT!  THIS IS IT!  Ummm....but it isn't, you see...  After being felt up by about 4 different people they all conclude I was not dilating.  Not dilating?  Not even a little? NOT DILATING?  But this HUUUURRRTTTSSS!!!!  WTF?!?!?!!?!

Wtf, indeed.

     Turns out I am getting all the BANG and none of the "It's a girl!" BUCK.  It's False Labor... aaaand it could go on for weeks.  Hearing the "False" part kind of hurt because it didn't feel "False" at all.  In fact, it felt entirely "True" and, as a third timer, I was a little disturbed that I could be duped like that... by my own body even.  The contractions didn't stop but I got to do the walk of shame past the front desk and back out into the parking garage.... *sigh*... with no baby.

Part of my disappointment is because I really can't wait to meet her, part of it is because I really don't want to be pregnant anymore, and part of it is because of that stupid word "False"....

     This got me ta thinkin'... there are a whole lot of words used in OB/GYN situations that have a very negative connotation.  Words that BLAME ... words like "false" and "incompetent"... words that would never be used in reference to a man's pink parts.  I mean, imagine if they called it "Failure to Launch" or "Bad case 'o' the Flops" instead of "Erectile Dysfunction"?  Or what about "No Goo For You"  or "Bye-Bye Boom-Boom Juice" instead of "Prostate Cancer"?   Well they just wouldn't, would they?

     Hey you, Who-Ha community!  My cervix was not "Incompetent " with my last pregnancy (it was just over-eager), and there was nothing "False" about my contractions this time around either.  They sucked then, they sucked all weekend, and they suck now.  Let's call them something else, hummm?  How about "Super Heroine Squeezes" or "The-Hell-We-Are-The-Weaker-Sex Marathon Labor Prep Exercises"?  We could call them the "Seriously's?!?!" for short... just sayin'.

     We have no more control over "Incompetent" or "False" than over "Dysfunction" or "Cancer"....  You Docs may not see it as a failing, but as a hormonal and desperate pregnant woman,  hearing "False" hurts.  But I will continue on, do my kick counts and try to wait patiently...  Yeah... *sigh*

I may actually "ESPLODE"!

A Little Birthday Brothers Grimm....

So... I got a little older this weekend....
And a little rounder....
And, maybe a little bit wiser....  well, maybe not....

     We spent the beginning of my birthday at the State Fair.  It was great!  We rode rides (well, not me),...

... ate corn dogs, and toured all the farm animal competitions.  The wigglers were amazed at the size of the cows and the Mammoth Jacks, while completely charmed by all the effed up chicken breeds and super-cross-bred bunnies.

Chicken or Swiffer Duster?

Little did we know, though, that the real wildlife was riding home with us in our very own Robert the Blue car.

     When we got home it was nap time o'clock.  Sass Monkey has been phasing out naps for sometime now (big time sad face) but Sprinkles will still go down for a couple of hours if we run her hard enough... which we did.  Except ... except... it WASN'T quite hard enough to keep her asleep the entire time.  At some point she woke up, stripped completely naked, curled up, and went sweetly back to sleep.  Awwww, right?  Cutey little nakey buns snoring away... and peeing profusely.  Eventually, her own rapidly chilling puddle awakened her from her angelic slumber and that's when the screaming started.  Needless to say, she was quite upset to wake up in a puddle of her own cold pee.  I mean, none of us like to do that, right?  Not that I have... recently.... *AHEM*...  Anyway, I proceeded  to calmly clean her up and tell her yet again that "This is why we DO NOT take our diaper off." while mentally patting myself on the back for remaining so calm and un-hormonal about the whole situation.  Then I roundly huffed and puffed her sheets, comforter, and plushies off the bed and attempted to haul it all downstairs to the laundry, thinking the worst was over....

I.  Was.  Wrong.

     By this time I was supposed to be cooking dinner.  Hamburgers, french fries ... the pregnancy works!  It was my birthday dinner and I had delicious, greasy, deep fried plans!  Hubbs had run to the grocery store to pick up a couple of extras and I was sure I would have enough time to get dinner finished before the extended familia came over for some birthday cake and ice cream.  I glanced at the clock while carrying the sheets out to the laundry.  Yeah.... I should still have time.  No prob....

     All of a sudden, Sass starts shrieking hysterically and then screams "Hey MOOOOooooommmm!  Sister took her diaper off.... AND SHE POOPED IN MY ROOM!"...

     Queue the VERY slow motion waddle/dash for the stairs and my horrified "NOOOOOOOOOO!"... but it was too late.  In the time it had taken me to get downstairs and put the sheets in the washer, my dear, sweet Sprinks had pooped like a man, taken off her diaper, and walked around upstairs dropping nugs like napalm in Nam.  It.  Was.  Everywhere.

And that is how, my sweet little children, we ended up having McDonalds for dinner.

The End

I am not completely myself...

As we round into the 3rd level of hell trimester, I have finally come to the realization that I am really not myself.  Not even close.  There are echos of my former humanity rattling around in here somewhere but that is all they are.... echos.  I have become...  THE INCUBATOR or THE GREAT GASPY or A WHALE CALLED SYNNØVE .. just pick one and run with it.  It's not like I can... run, that is... or even walk quickly, really....  *sigh*

Anyhoo...  While there are many things I am not (like ambulatory, continent, or sentient) there ARE a few things I still am.

I AM

- I am so roundly gargantuan that it's gotten to the point where Hubbs no longer asks if I'm okay when he hears a bunch of panting, grunting, and painful groaning coming from the other room... he just assumes I am trying to stand up.  And he's right...

- I am the hugely pregnant Mom who inspires all the other children in my son's class to beg loudly and publicly for a sibling.  No, no... go ahead and throw me the shark-eye, other Moms.  I get it.  No hard feelings....

- I am the human dirigible who trips over NOTHING in the middle of downtown Nashville and falls on the sidewalk much to the complete horror of everyone around me.  I couldn't stop myself.  Where the belly goes, so go I... damnit.

- I am starting to dream about giving birth...  Yeah, I've hit that point.  The best part of the dream is when I can actually bend over afterwards and breathe properly.  There is always this intense sense of physical relief at the end as I cradle my my new baby (or rag doll as in my last dream where I gave birth to Raggedy Ann in the shower.  Freud THAT!) to my chest and go about my daily life as if nothing has happened.  No pain, no blood, no unnamable goo... just sweet relief.

- I am THAT pregnant lady who has grown too large for actual maternity clothes by month 7 and must move on to big dude tee-shirts from Wal-mart or two table cloths sewn together...

- I AM the heavy breather in the elevator....

- I am so big my stomach is no longer suitable for my children to blow razzberries on as the skin is too tightly stretched.  They have had to substitute with Daddy; a hairier but viable substitute.  He is THRILLED.

- I am that wife who asks my Hubbs to "Be honest... how much bigger HAS my ass gotten?".   He usually just says "I love you!" and moves away quickly or smiles and says "I don't know what you are talking about.".   For a lawyer, he is a terrible liar...

- I am that un-handicapped woman who seriously considers the little motorized scooters in Wal-mart when we go grocery shopping....

- I am afraid to sneeze...

- I am, as my son likes to say, "preeeeegnant". (Draw that out with a Tennessee drawl and then giggle maniacally and you've got it.  Oh, and you need to be shirtless, wearing a camo trucker hat with 4 year olds farmer tan.)  Yup, mah little man, I am... with all those extra vowels and everything.

So these things I am and maybe a bit more (depending of whether my little tumbler in training takes the night off or not).  And it's only going to get worse before it gets better...  And then.... then.... into the Newborn Fog we go.  Good times, good times....  But at least I will be able to bend over.  :)

Tah-tah!

OO7 Sass-style.

So... Sass has a new... um... trick?... game?... that Hubbs falls for every.  single.   time.

     Before book and bed at night, Sass watches a cartoon.  Sometimes it's Jake and the Neverland Pirates, sometimes it's *shudder* Bubble Guppies, but most of the time it is Octonauts (But never the Whale Shark ones.  Sass is TERRIFIED of the Whale Shark ones.).  Hubbs and I usually use this time to begin the vegging and play on our phones.  (There are only so many times one can watch "The Snot Sea Cucumber" or "The Comb-toothed Blenny".)  It's been a great tool in "Calm Yourself, Monkey Boy" time and sets him up nicely for a pee, a book, and bed.  That is, until...

Me:  "Okay, buddy.  Octonauts is over.  Time to go upstairs."
Sass:  "Just one more?  One more Octonauts?  Please?"
Me:  "Nope... you know the drill.  Let's go."
Sass:  "Hold on, Mommy.  I want to ask Daddy someding."
Me:  "He's going to tell you the same thing, buddy."
Sass:  *already squirming into Daddy's lap* "Come here Daddy.  I want to tewl you someding secret."  *places a hand on either side of Daddy's face and turns to whisper in his ear*

     Except he doesn't whisper.  He licks all the way up the side of Dad's poor, old noggin.  Chin.  Ear.  Hair.  All of it.  And so quickly, all Hubbs had time to do is looked shocked and gag a little.  Sass and I then proceeded to laugh like maniacs for about 3 minutes while Dad digs the drool out of his ear.

The thing is, this hasn't just happened once or even just twice.  It has happened 3 or 4 times.  Sass varies his approach and waits for days before trying it again.  He's crafty.  And scary.  After his guerrilla-tongue attack, Hubbs lamented, "But I was going to get HIM this time!".

*sniff*  

My little man is growing up and plotting like a big boy.  

*blows nose loudly*  

I took this photo right after his sneak attack.  Just look at that sweet little face so filled with self-satisfaction... *sigh*

He defies logic... and all rules of proper sanitation....

I don't even know how to start this one out so I'll just go on and jump right in...

It is bedtime and Sass is SUPPOSED to be stripping down for a quick hose off before stories and sleep.  Like I said... SUPPOSED to be...

Instead I hear, "Mooooommy!  Come look!  I'm in da bathroom!".  As I walk in, I see my 4 year old son crammed cross-legged into the c.1983 shell-shaped bathroom sink like a crumpled up spider, grinning furiously.  And I hear the water running...  Why do I hear the water running but the tap isn't on?

"Hey Mommy!  I'm peeing on my feet!" *giggle*

Oh... THAT'S why.  Silly me.

And now all has been revealed!

Our currently equal testosterone/estrogen ratio is about to skew... in favor of estrogen!  That's right!  Bun #3 is a girl!  The Hubbs and I are very excited and also a bit in shock.  We were convinced it was a boy... but it's not so that means more pretty, sparkly girl clothes are in my future.  Yay!

*sigh* 

Bur poor Sass Monkey.  We will need to stop by the grocery store for some "emotional support" cupcakes to liberally apply after we drop this bomb on him.  He was insistent we have a boy and that we name it "Gunman".  He was adamant about "No more sisters."  Tough breaks, buddy.  Here... let the buttercreme make it better.

But.... just maybe.... it's the universe looking out for me.  Because you see, last night, as a freshly bathed Sass Monkey ninja-style tea-bagged my woefully unprotected knee caps while laughing maniacally (knowing full well that Mommy was a sitting duck because she was very roundly stuck in a giant, leather bean bag chair) I thought to myself "Oh gawd.... what if it's another boy?"... and then "Ug... that is uncomfortably warm...".

*deeper sigh*

Just a thought.  Just a thought.

4 going on 14

     Sass Monkey is... well... is going through A PHASE.  *cue ominous music*  I can safely say I hate this phase.  Passionately.  I don't hate my Sass, of course, but d*mn boy... cut that sh*t out.  The problem is, despite the lack of any body hair growth or voice cracking, my big, blue-eyed boy thinks he is an Axe-Body-Spray-wearing, zit-popping, honest-to-gawd teenager.  This phase comes complete with eye rolling, ignoring my very existence, and "Duh, Mom.".  Here is an example of a typical conversation:

Me:  "Don't use the furniture as a jungle gym, Monkey Boy."
Sass:  *continues to swing/jump/chew on the arm of the couch as if I haven't spoken*
Me:  "Sass, quit it.  Get off the couch."
Sass:  *more ignoring*
Me:  "I said get off the couch!" *snatching ensues*

or

Sass:  "You forgot my milk, Mom."
Me:  "I didn't forget it.  I'm getting it right now."
Sass:  "I'm thirsty.  I want some milk, Mom!"
Me:  "I am pouring it right now.  Use your eyes, please."
Sass:  "Well, Duh." *eye roll*
Me: *more snatching ensues*

He also liberally applies "Seriously?" and "I told you!" to his everyday beratement conversation..  Grrrrr....  This little Napoleon is just itchin' for his Waterloo.

     I will admit to a shorter fuse due to hormones and general pregnancy exhaustion, but come ON, little man!  You just had to skip ages 5-13 and go straight to teenager with a wish for certain irreparable bodily harm?  But why?  Even Daddy has had enough... and he has WAY more patience than I do.  Dude... just.... Please?

Sass Monkey the Dictator Barbarian