The Wild Life

Things you do NOT want to find in your car:

1.  Sippy Cup Cheese
2.  Unwashed and heavily used hockey gear
3.  One of these...

The Carolina Wren.  Small bird, big attitude.  They are my favorite.

     Not only had the pissy, feathered scourge crapped all over my dashboard, but I didn't even notice she was in there until we had pulled out of the driveway and were on our way to dance class.  In a terrifying burst of birdy rage (fear) she attacked the window right next to poor Sprinkles head, causing hysteria and future therapy bills for a debilitating Bird Phobia.

     How did she get IN the car in the first place, you ask?  A clicker on a key chain got bumped somehow and the evil avian was in.  It was Nature and Tech working together in one cruel prank like some psyche-scarring Stephen King novel come to life. 

And now I'm off to scrape vengeful bird shit off the inside of my minivan.....

OMG! It's been, like, forever!

     It's been a while hasn't it?  I'm like one of those nasty rashes that keeps showing up every few months just to remind you that I still can...  :)  But seriously, the reasons are as follows:

1.  I became a SAHM for three kids and ya'll... it took some adjustment.  A lot of adjustment.  Like, I'm still adjusting to the adjustment, kind of adjustment.

2.  The Holiday Cluster F*ck.  Yeah, you know what I mean.

3.  I got a stomach bug and felt "poorly" for an ungawdly long time.  I also lost 20 lbs.  No, it wasn't a tape worm... it was a hidden gift from above.  ;)

4.  My 3 year old developed a taste for Taylor Swift and I was held at pout-point and forced to memorize all the lyrics to "Shake It Off".  (Okay... not technically a reason but it sure effing feels like an eternity when you are listening to THATDAMNSONG for the 4,563 time... that morning.  That kind of pain should be reserved for enemies of the state and people who ring the door bell during nap time).

5.  I started a business (see #1).

     It's #5 that has brought me crawling back, you see.  My happy little corner of the economic world is called Moon Shine Suds & Such and I am one proud momma.  I make children's Treasure Soaps which are clear glycerin soaps in various shapes and seasonal incarnations with little toys on the inside.

These are little owl bracelets.

These are rings with jewels.

And then there are these little loveys.

And don't forget the dudes...

And these little soaps I call Bath Gems.

(I compensated my model with mac-n-cheese and a soap of her choosing.)

     I started selling at a local Farmer's Market and you know what?  I did okay.  Better than okay... I did well.  I learned a lot about how I have a lot to learn and it was really, really fun.  

     So, the focus of the blog may change a bit in the coming months.  I just wanted to warn you... but I hope you'll stick with me.  I'm not trying to sell you anything but this new chapter is too good to keep to myself... just like my little heathens.  :)  And don't you worry!  I'll be sure to put in all the good bits so they can Google themselves and hate me as soon as I give them access to an unrestricted computer... which will be when they are 20.  There are some crazy folks out there, ya know?  No need to find out that Mommy is one of them.... yet.

    

"Good Morning! This is Real Life speaking..."

     Let's get one thing straight.  We are not all friends.  You and I are, of course, but we can all name at least one person with whom we would never EVER, say, go gab a cup of coffee... or brake for if we saw crossing the street. (I am talking about you, boy who teased me unmercifully for being both short and bespectacled in Middle School.  Which I still am.  Except for the "Middle School" part.  Btw, how did your cell mates feel about you being a complete asshat during your short, but oh-so deserved stint "up-state"?  Ah, catharsis...)  Avioding the asshats in all our lives is normal.  It is okay.  If we spend our life trying to like everyone and make everyone like us then we will have a very unfulfilled life indeed.  I mean, don't be an asshat but don't strain yourself either, right?

If this seems a bit spewy for a Thursday morning, well ... it is.  But here's why.

     Sass Monkey started kindergarten this school year and, for the most part, it has been a wonderful experience.  He can already count to 100, read sight words, wiz through his flash cards AND... he already has a class bully.  HE.  IS.  5.  Wtf?  This kid isn't just a problem for my son, mind you, he terrorizes the ENTIRE CLASS, and two days ago, this child took it from verbal nonsense to physical.  He punched my son in the stomach so hard he knocked the wind out of him on the playground.

(Give me a sec... my head may just explode.  Not a mama bear.  Not a mama bear.  I am people.  People are rational.)

     Now, this is being handled (oh, believe you and me, Hubbs and I are going to handle the hell out of this one.), but the hardest part isn't knowing my child was hurt.  The worst part is watching the complete disbelief and confusion crawl across my son's face when he talks about the incident.  He doesn't understand WHY.  And why should he?

     From day one we teach our children that we all are "Friends".  "Friends" play together.  "Friends" share.  "Friends" don't chuck mulch at each other on the playground.  Even when kids are less than friendly they are still "Friends"; binding them forcibly together in some odd notion of happy-go-lucky, Utopian nonsense.

     Haters gonna hate on this one, I know, but now my son is wrestling with the idea that maybe "Friends" can hurt you but you are still called "Friends".  So where does sticking up for himself come into play in all of this?  How can he defend himself if he follows all the "friend" rules?  The short answer is.. he can't.  I have unintentionally programmed him to just take it.

     But here's the next problem.  Teaching a child that everyone is a potential friend isn't bad.  It's really, really good.  It helps them learn to share and be kind.  It helps them to become outgoing and good-natured.  It teaches them to treat others like they want to be treated... and it also hobbles them.  We have now been forced to have the conversation that, well, everyone isn't actually your friend.  If someone is unkind to you, you don't have to try and play with them.  This alien concept has further confused poor Sass Monkey.

     So... now... what the hell do we do?  The fuzzy cocoon of playdate-parenting has just been ripped open to let in some of the bigger uglies of the world and I feel like I have really let my baby boy down on this one.  It's a harsh truth that we all know about but hide from them... aaaaand it's a biggie.  I don't want to teach my children fear or mistrust but there must be a middle ground somewhere!  How do I teach my children to stand up for themselves and shout "No!" while helping them understand that, for the most part, we really all can be "friends"?

Are we protecting them or, for a short while, just protecting ourselves?

Mommy Resume

Mom (no last name or shame)

Education

Sleep Deprived State University
2009-present

Employment History

Manager of Operations and other Chaos                  2009-present

     -Cheuffer
     -Covert Kleenex Storage
     -Advanced snack packing
     -Jesus-like ability to heal any and all minor boo-boos by touch
     -Butt and/or nose wiping without gagging
     -Certified 5 Gold Nugget chef
     -Proffessional Bullsh*t Matador
     -Proficient in The Fog, MS BadWord, MS Power Pointing, MS Access to the cookies I hid on the top shelf, MS Excel in hiding in the bathroom
     -Aquired oubliette-like purse/pockets

Skills

Functioning on far less than the recommended amount of sleep,  acidic spit, finding any and all Legos with bare feet, snuggling



References upon request.... but not in writing because they can't write yet... so not really...

TPSD

This morning my Sprinks was a Super Helper.  So super, in fact, that she cleaned up her own pee puddle from a tragically shifted Pull-Up with one of my handmade throw pillows.

Then she painted breakfast.  She did things with a bowl of cereal and 1/16th inch of milk in 2.5 seconds that I didn't think were possible.   I'm starting to believe that she can bend time and space.

Yesterday, she tripped over the same 2 steps (that have been in the exact same spot since we moved in almost 2 years ago) no less than 12 times causing the use of a disproportionate amount of My Little Pony band-aids.

THEN...

She got stuck in a cape.

She lost 3 socks.  None from the same pair...

She fell while picking her nose.  FAIL.

She refused to wear a shirt.

She smacked Sass in the face for not letting her on HIS bed.

She survived solely on milk and Goldfish.  And Pony band-aids.

She cried uncontrollably because she had to take a nap.

She cried uncontrollably because she woke up.

She cried uncontrollably because a movie wasn't Frozen.

She cried uncontrollably because a movie WAS Frozen.

She tried to secede and start her own dictatorship.

She tripped while picking her nose again.


So, what I'm saying is she is 2 and I have Toddler PTSD.  And that I need drugs.  For me.  She already makes her own brand of crazy.

The Quiet Times

     My children are always their most adorable when they are sleeping.

     It certainly isn't when they are all clustered around a chaotic lunch table, like deranged cattle in a holding pen, mooing loudly for more milk and food that has never been in my refrigerator but has been seen on TV.

     It most definitely is not when all goes eerily quite in the playroom and I find them huddled around a mysteriously wet spot in the carpet, bathroom cup in hand but the toilet unfortunately unflushed.

     I can safely say it is not when my daughter comes inside chewing happily on a mouthful of what turns out to be potting soil.

     Nor is it when my son, who insists that he pee standing up like a grown man, suddenly turns to share some brilliant 4 year old insight mid-stream.

     And it is not when the baby loudly and violently decides to reject the 3 mouthfuls of mashed green beans she was surreptitiously cheeking, like a sneaky little rodent, onto my face, hair, and all surrounding surfaces.

     No, it is not those times.  It is when all the troubles of the day fall away into pink cheeks, gentle sighs, and snuggled stuffed animals that they are their most adorable... but they are always loved.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

     Oh Spring!  Unfurl your tender buds, wake your sleepy bees, and deposit your 24 Vomit-paloozas... wait... what?  That last one.  Yeah.   Did you know that kids who talk a lot have really well developed core muscles and so can projectile yerk like it's an Olymic Sport and they ain't settlin' for no Silver?  At least poor Sass figured out the toilet/barf relationship.   Sprinkels thought it was wall paint.  Or something to snuggle.  Two comforters, three pillows, and several sheets later she finally stopped erupting and, as I bolted up the stairs for the 40 millionth time at around 1:30 a.m. to the not-so-sweet-sounds of chunks hitting carpet, I realized I was learning some things... big things.  Things I would like to share with ya'll...

1.  A puking toddler is  The.  Saddest.  Thing.  Ever.  EVER!  All you want to do is clasp them to your bosom, stroke their hair, and tell them it will be alright... but you can't because they are covered in ralph-nasty.

2.  Apparently, I have a line.   See reason 1.

3.  Puke in your bed once, shame on the virus.  Puke in your bed twice, shame on Mommy for not getting out the blow up matress sooner.  Puke in your bed thrice,  well... damnit.

5.  4 was too gross.  Sorry.

6.  You wrestle gators naked and blindfolded?  Amature!  Try two kids playing gut Vesuvius after eating hot dogs for lunch.  Hot.  Dogs.  Yeah...

7.  Never assume the worst is over.

8.  Never give a sick child anything you plan on eating again in the next decade.  Or do, if you need an effective diet plan.

9.  Doomsday Preppers may not be as nutty as I thought.   I really should stockpile more towels and sheets.  And carpet cleaner.  And pjs.  And sleep.

10.  Describing in minute and gory detail all the trials and tribulations endured that troubled night to my childless buddies has been quite entertaining.  For me anyway...  You gotta get yer jollies somehow.

But the important thing is we all survived.  Well, almost all of us.  Poor Piggy.

Dante's 10th Circle

     There are so many wonderful things about babies... but you are going to have to look elsewhere for some snuggly little post extolling the many virtues of those chubby people-grubs today because ya'll... sleep training.

    To those who worry that letting a baby "cry it out" will cause irrevocable damage to their little psyches I say... if seeing the inside of your Mom's vagina didn't scar you for life do you really think that crying hard for 20 minutes for a couple days in a row is going to do it?  Nah.  I don't think so.

*In fact, I think that's a good question to ask ourselves throughout our lives.  "Is this experience/situation more or less traumatic than knowing that my face was thoroughly mashed into and across my mom's pink parts?"  If no, then suck it up and move on.  If yes, proceed directly to the nearest therapist.  You have earned it*

     So yeah, sleep training. Ug.  It is a very necessary big time evil.  You end up spending the entire night clutching the monitor, listening to your sweetness and light scream out their displeasure into the deep and terrible night while you feel like the worst parent since we emerged from the muck, dragging our slimy little bodies behind us.  Then, as morning breaks and you realize you actually fell asleep because OMGIT'SQUIET, you rush into their room convinced of the worst only to find them sleeping soundly surrounded by the sweet glow of adorable baby.  And you are greatful.  And you are relieved.   And you are hopeful.  At least until night #2...

I shall gird mah loins and ask for prayers...

Oh, and did I mention we are potty training Sprinkles at the same time?  Because it isn't a party until I am delusional from lack of sleep AND scrubbing pee out of the carpet...

Party on Garth.

A beautiful mind...

     I love the 4 year old mind.   Sass Monkey is part mad genius, part accident-prone comedian all mixed together with a healthy dose of emotionally challenged dictator.  

It's some of this...

... with more of this...

... and this for a closer. 

I am one proud Mommy.

From the mouths of my babes...

I like to talk... a lot,  so it stands to reason that my children do too.   And boy, do they.  Allthedamntime.  They say things like:

Sprinkles: "MOOOOoooom!"

(I have been down graded from "mommy" to just "mom" recently.   You are 2... really?)  Anyway... I digress.   It goes something like this. *AHEM*

"Mom! Poop!  Hand, hand, HAND!"
Aaaaand she doesn't mean "give me a hand"...

OR

Sass:  "Touch me, Mom.  I don't think I'm real."

OR

After the arrival of TBL, we fielded a veritable avalanche of questions from Sass concerning his little sister.  He would sit and watch me change her and ask about everything from the color of her poop to what that crusty thing on her belly button was.  I was rather proud of my pre-k friendly explanation of the umbilical cord and he seemed to really get it.   He got it so well, in fact, that the next time it was time for a diaper change he streaked into the room yelling "Hey Mom!  I wanna see her charger!"

Yeah... sort of.

OR

Any time I ask Sprinkles to do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, she squints her eyes menacingly at me and yells "NEVER!" but like an old, grizzled sea dog so it comes out more like "NEVAH!".  And then she growls like a raid raccoon... Yeah, I don't know either.

AAAAAND

Sass was chasing after a red balloon today yelling "Balogna Sandwich!" at the top of his lungs. That is quite a battle cry, little man.

It be a loquacious house,  ya'll. 

*sigh*  I'm tired...

;)

I'm looking at you, Blue!

No "washable" marker,
Specifically Blue,
Has made me see red
Quite like you do.

It may be that "washable"
Means something else where you're made?

Something was lost in translation
And on my nerves you have stayed!

No Eraser that's Magic,
Nor cleanser with scrubbies
Has scraped you from walls
Or the skin of my babies.

And NOW...

It's really quite obvious...
Yes, everyone knows...
That poor little Sprinks
Has been picking her nose.
There is a stain down her face,
A Cerulean Letter,
Where you clung to her fingers.
But it gets even better
Because even her boogers
Are a bright shade of blue...
Because you aren't really "washable"
Like you say, now... are you?

Deja Vu

     GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!  ...or just my household.   Breakfast has been devoured (exploded), everybody is still in their jammies, and I'm walking around with someone else's vomit on my shirt... again.  Huh... sounds like college! I wonder what else hasn't changed all that much? 

All Nighters - But in college it's one or two in a row and not the hellish, exhaust-o-fog that goes on for months (but feels like years) with a newborn.

Ish - It's all drama, tears, and fits of misplaced passion... it could be over who is sleeping with who or who just needs to sleep.

Food - It's all cafeteria food,  really.  French fries, canned veggies, and nuggets of various and unidentifiable meats... Oh and pudding.  Pudding is GOLD...

Ick - Why am I sticking too the floor?  Is it food?  Is it bodily fluids?  You know what, don't answer that.  Yeah... sad when this could work for a frat house OR my kitchen.

Weight Gain - Except in college it's a cute little 5 -15 pounds.  With kids it's, well... let's not go there.  Slimfast my ass...

Effing Laundry - Why do babies (or students) need clean socks, anyway?

It's All About The Boobs - Back then it was all about that tiny little top that just barely kept them in and now I just want a nursing top that makes it easy for me to get them out.

Questionable Bathing Habits - Every dorm (or house) has "that kid".  You know who I mean...the one that refuses to scrub ANYTHING.

$$$ - Where did all my money go?  Beer or Babies, it's the same issue.

I Know Nothing - It's just that then I didn't realize how stupid I was and now I am fully aware of how little I actually know.

     But things really are quite different now, aren't they? I mean, I have crows feet and gray hair now so...  *sigh*

The winds, they are a'changin'...

     2013 was a year of... well, epic.  Just epic.  Babies, minivans, pull-ups, and nobody needed stitches (well, except me) so I'm going to go ahead and say it was pretty, um, interesting.  Take Thanksgiving... it began calmly enough.  We showed up at the cabin, we gorged, we food-drunkenly tried to wrangle children who denied the laws of tryptophan, and then Hubbs became so dizzy he couldn't stand and began the screamy-vomits.  And so Menier's Disease entered our lives with a crash-bang and a garbage bag full of predigested pumpkin pie.  Don't worry... he's back to normal now... well, as normal as he ever was anyway...

     Then there was The Big Little...  TBL shocked the hell out of us by almost arriving in the car on the frantic race to L&D mere hours before a nice, calm, scheduled c-section.

     The wigglers amazed and awed us all by taking this new addition completely in stride.  They love having a baby sister to kiss and pat and to try and force-feed Goldfish to when mommy isn't looking... (oh Sprinkles) *sigh*  In fact, Sass Monkey is completely enamored of TBL.  So much so that when TBL was only 3 weeks old, he came around the corner of the living room (where I had just left them moments before) into the kitchen carrying her and proclaiming that he was her big brother and he was going to "learn her things"...   That was a good 5 years of my life and several new gray hairs.  Don't worry about her either.  She's fine.

(Don't the Chinese have curse that goes something like "May you live in interesting times..."? Yeah... *ahem*)

     But despite the moments that have had Hubbs and I clutching our chests and reaching for the Bayer there have been so many more achingly wonderful ones.  Our baby's first cry, Sprinkles first night in her big girl bed, Sass's first joke with an actual punchline... I could go on and on but you didn't come here for mush, now did you?

I thought not...

How about some big news?  No, no... not that.   I got mah self spade but how about... (drumroll please)... I quit my job.

Yeah.

I did.  (*gulp*)

And now all 3 wigglers are at home with me.  I know.  The girl who has worked somewhere doing something since she was a senior in high school, the PWM, the girl who swore she never would EVER... is now a SAHM.  It's enough to make you mess yer britches... but then so was the daycare bill for 3 wigglers.

     So, here begins a new chapter.   Light a candle for me.  Hell, light one for us all...

Oh sh*t.  There are 3 of them.

I'm baaaaaaaaack.... sort of...

    Let's start at the beginning because it's a great place to start and I'll tell you the tale of how the universe is an asshole... errr... my beautiful and amazing birth story...

So, you know how I am ALL about the drugs during childbirth and I talk about "crunchies" being crazy people allthedamntime?  Yeah... well... now I am convinced of it...  ;)

     You see, my c-section was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Sunday morning 3 very long weeks ago so... of course... I was awakened at 4:45 a.m. that morning by contractions that were 8 minutes apart.  3 contractions later they were 5 minutes apart.  *oh shit*  Hubbs and I quickly scramble for the car where things really start to get interesting.  In the 20 minutes it takes to get to L&D, my contractions shoot to 2 minutes apart and gird themselves for war!   When we (finally!) get to the hospital (and after giving those daft bats at the front desk the shark-eye when they suggested paperwork) Hubbs and I are rushed to triage where they discover I am 8 cm and fully effaced.  They get my IV in and I'm 10 cm with bulging bag.   No pain killers as of yet, btw.  They bum-rush me to the OR and take Hubbs out to get his bunny suit and the rest is a pain colored blur of one nurse letting me attempt to squeeze off her left arm while another nurse laid across my legs to keep them straight so baby girl can't move futher down as some poor (but very well trained) sot tries to get my spinal set.  By this time I am in full transition with the shakes, sweats, and excruciating pain... AND STILL NO EFFING DRUGS!

     Then ... ahhhhh... sweet, sweet spinal relief and I think I proposed to the anesthesiologist.   Baby girl was born at 7:20 a.m. screaming and... well, screaming some more.  In fact, she cracked up the drs and nurses because she hacked up all the fluid in her lungs and started screaming before they could even get her shoulders free of me.   I imagine it was rather Aliens-esque.  Yeah.... girl knows how to make an entrance.

So you can see how the universe really got a chuckle out of this one.  Smug bastard.

But WOW is she cute...  :)

*  I would like to add that Hubbs was an amazing, superhero-like rock of wonderfulness and support through the entire process despite how crazy this whole experience was.  He also said he saw my innards and they looked just like deer guts....

She is HERE!

     I would like to announce that on November 10th at 7:20 a.m., our sweet baby girl came into this world, screaming like an angry cat 3 hrs and 40 minutes ahead of her scheduled c-section via emergency c-section.  Already, my sweet baby girl knows how to make a grand entrance and is following the "go big or go home" theme in our house... but that is another post for another day.  :)  And don't worry... ya'll are going to hear aaaalllll about it!
 
Our duology is finally a trilogy and we are complete!

Your regularly scheduled program is broken...

     I am currently 37 1/2 weeks with a baby/behemoth growing in my midsection that is measuring 8lbs 14oz. Ya'll... I am 5 feet tall.  I keep going into labor but not progressing because her head is too big to get through my poor, beleaguered pelvis.  Unless she breaks it... which feels like a possibility.  My all-knowing, all-seeing Doctor is "so excited that I will make it until my scheduled c-section date", but I must confess, I do not share her "enthusiasm".  Mostly I just wonder if this could be considered torture and could I appeal to a higher governmental power to GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME before I need reconstructive surgery on... well... everything.  I mean, if we have to ensure a certain "humanitarian comfort level" of our convicted felons, why can we slowly rip up the insides of one law abiding mommy?  *sigh*  My plaintive cries have fallen on overly educated and completely deaf ears...

     So... I am taking a Blog Break (from the writing part anyway...  I'm sure I will be blowin' up the Facebooks, Twitters, and Instagrams with photos because those don't require a whole lot of brain sparkies.) AND while I'm sure most of you would be the loverly folks you are and at least peruse my pain wrapped ramblings on how much I hate being pregnant, I won't subject you to that.  Because I love you.  ALL of you.  I'm poly-bloggy like that...  I will be keeping up with you guys (hopefully) because I need to be able to live vicariously through all of you... unless you write about being able to bend over or bladder control... then I will just skip it because HOW CRUEL OF YOU TO RUB IT IN MY FACE LIKE THAT!  *ahem*  I mean, I am not in a place emotionally where I can handle that right now.  Give me a couple of weeks, a c-section, a sweet little baby on the outside, a handy bottle of pain meds, and I will be good to go.

So until then.... see you in your "Comments" section....

*MUAH*

Life lessons at the check-out counter....

     During our increasingly familiar mid-week-trip to the grocery store (because Mommy has decided we need to eat something with more meat, more fried whatever, or more chocolate) my children were entertaining themselves in the car-cart by lifting up their shirts and begging the other one to poke them in the belly button... loudly.  Screechy choruses of "Me!" "No!  Now me!" were echoing through the isles causing the childless to throw the shark eye and the child-ed to smirk and walk on.  They were actually being pretty adorable if you ask me.

     But, as with everything else, all good things/behavior must come to an end, and what began as a round of sweet belly poking, became a full on contact sport.  While Hubbs was trying to check out and I had gone to put an extra something back, Sass began to whomp on Sprinkles... she was thrilled!  The girl loves a good wrastle....  She sat there, giggling and grinning as Bubba rattled her back and forth.  I could see her grin from across the grocery store as I waddled back.  Hubbs was just turning to calm things down when an employee in one of those store colored vests walked up to "shield" my "poor defenseless daughter" from the "obviously egregious maltreatment" by her "evil older brother"... like it was some damn Disney fairytale.  With a sweet southern smile (that always means the exact opposite of what it does everywhere else in the world... except to apes... don't smile at an ape) she told Sass to "be nice to his little sister" and clasped Sprinks head protectively to her bosom. (Boy, is that woman luck that SPrinkles doesn't bite... anymore.)

     Now... I am all for a little village discipline.  I have been known to quietly threaten the sand/dirt/mulch throwing heathens of inattentive parents on the playground on numerous occasions.  The idea that Big Parent is always watching is a good one... but would she have done this if Sprinks was the aggressor and Sass the whompee?  Or if my oldest was a girl and my current youngest was a boy?  My money's on no.  Granted, they were being loud and disruptive and we were just trying to get out of the store with all limbs attached, but she was as culpable as he was, not to mention enjoying every moment of it.  There may be 2 years between them, but genetics has decreed that there only be 8 lbs separating them in weight at this point, and what Sass may have in big boy coordination Sprinks can totally handle with her sheer bulk and brute strength.  "Girl" does not equal delicate, crazy lady at the grocery store, or well mannered for that matter. Or clean.  Or defenseless.  Or non-bug eating.  I see we still have a lot of societal re-training to do...  *sigh*

     As I finished waddling up I laughed and said "Oh don't you worry.  She gives as good as she gets." a.k.a. "Hint, hint... hands off." and smiled my ape-smile right back and we went on our way.  When we got home dinner was cooked, cartoons were watched, and cheerful wrastling ensued.... and she gave as good as she got (much to Sass's delight) just like usual and just like it will always be.

Sometimes it's like this...

... and sometimes it ends up like this...

... but being able to (theoretically) pee standing up has NOTHING to do with the outcome of the match!

We all need a little "Heroic Effort"!

     My brother-in-law is going through some L&D pains of his own at the moment.  He is birfin' his buh-aby this week and I would say he's crowning and livin' in that ring-o-fire as we speak...     You see, he's just released his first comedy album called "Heroic Effort" and it is pee-your-pants funny (and no... I am not just saying that because I am preggo and pee when I breathe too hard.  He's just that damn funny!).  Get some depends, put the kids to bed,  grab an adult beverage, and prepare to be bladderally annihilated!

And yes, he totally does walk around looking just like that.  Giant, bionic ninja sword and everything...  My sister is so proud... see?

Totes adorbes....

Anyhoo... go here and download it NOW!  You need the laugh... you know you do....  Besides, dry underwear are over rated....

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"!

In the Land of Odd....

In the faraway Land of Odd....

It makes perfect sense to barge into the bathroom to monitor Mommy's toilet paper usage and then offer to help her wipe.

It makes total sense to use brother as a Kleenex.

It makes total sense to use Mommy as a Kleenex.

It makes total sense to barrel into the bedroom while Daddy is getting dressed, yell "nakey buns", smack him in the behind, and then run out again.

It makes total sense to roll play your demons out in the back seat, complete with sound effects and hand flailing.

It makes perfect sense to lay at the bottom of the slide, head facing the top, so that brother can slide down and play "Bocce-Noggins" with you.... repeatedly.

It makes total sense to discuss your underwear choice with the checkout lady at the grocery store... and then let it slip that we "had to throw some Spiderman underwear in da trash because mah weiner was pokin' out!".

It makes total sense to poke yourself in the eye with a fork when asked to take another bite of dinner.

It makes total sense to breakdance anywhere at anytime, all the time.

It makes total sense to do a naked Haka after every bath.  Every.  Bath.

It makes total sense (AND ensures your survival) when you can go from screaming heathen beast to snuggle-angel in 2.8 nanoseconds.

All of this, and much much more... in the faraway Land of Odd.