Third Verse, Same as the First

When I was pregnant with Noise, my mother often tried to tell me that I would forget about the minor discomforts and inconveniences of pregancy. As I was going through it, I had a hard time believing her. “Yeah right,” I thought, “like I’m going to forget that I had to cram eight pillows between my legs every night just so that I could walk without excrutiating sciatica pain every day!”

Like many of the things my mother told me, it was true. I did forget most of it.

Which means that my subsequent pregnancies have been a long trail of “Oh, YEAH!’s.” As in, “Oh, yeah! I forgot that every time I eat dinner and then bend over to pick something up I am going to have heartburn that lasts for three days!” Or, “oh, yeah! When you feed a newborn? You have to burp it!” Or, “Oh yeah! Labor truly and magnificently sucks a big hairy ass! Ouch!”

Today?  “Oh yeah! I totally forgot that right around the 22nd week it starts to feel like someone is stabbing you with an 8″ Santoku knife right though your vagina!”

My doctor told me it was something about pressure on the pelvic bone, blah blah blah, but it totally feels like I am getting stabbed in the coot. So hurrah for that. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a girl would forget, but sure enough, when I took my first steps out of bed this morning, and the shooting pain began, I totally remembered this completely crappy part of pregnancy. It was worse with Funk than it was with Noise, so I completely expect it to be terrible this time, since my uterus has all but given up trying to hold this baby up and off my pelvis. Damn quitter uterus.

The other thing I’ve learned with my third pregnancy is that I am so over the pregnant thing. I reveled in my pregnancy with Noise, because I had nothing else to focus on. I barely noticed my pregnancy with Funk, because Noise was still so little and so I was just exhausted all the time. This time, I feel like an impatient asshole waiting at the bus stop. Checking my watch, tapping my foot. “Can we just skip to the baby part already? Because seriously, people. The whole “miracle of growing a life inside my ever-expanding beer gut” thing is getting O.L.D.”

With my pregnancy with Funk, I wished the pregnancy would last longer– I hadn’t planned to ruin my 12 month old’s life with a new sibling, and I wanted to enjoy every minute of him that I could before “someone else” diverted my attention. I felt guilty for robbing him of me. But with Snoodle? I know that his presence is a gift to my kids, not a theft, and I know that the sooner he gets here the sooner we can all start getting used to a new normal.

And also? I am sick of being stabbed in the va-jay-jay.

P.S. In case you’ve got internet in there, Snoodle, we are not really in any hurry to see you. You’ve got at least 16 more weeks of cooking to go. Stay put. But stop practicing The Crane on my bladder, por favor.

…And there was a fake zebra pelt on the wall.

It’s the nine year anniversary of making out with my husband for the first time, completely drunk, in a tacky dance bar! (If you haven’t been with me a while, follow the linky! It’s one of my favorite posts!)

It’s nice to have a story to tell the grandkids…

Monkey Head

Let’s say hypothetically that you bought a bag of those frozen dinner rolls, because you read this excellent recipe for Monkey Bread on a blog you read, and you can’t wait to make it for the kids?

Hypothetically speaking, if you were ever to buy said bag of frozen rolls, you should not put them in your fridge “to thaw out” because they are going to expand and expand and expand until what you have instead of Monkey bread is a refrigerator full of exploded, thawed, risen dinner rolls.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

I’m Getting a Picture…

… of this couple. Aren’t you? Seriously. I need to sleep.

A Whale of a Thing

It’s 3:45 and I can’t sleep. I have a crazy head cold, so I took some baby-gestating-approved Sudafed to try and get some relief. But Sudafed always affects me this way– it works great for the cold but then I just cannot sleep and so I am exhausted but awake.

Anywho.

There’s not much on at this time in the morning.

I’ve got on some show called “Whale Wars.” The tag line for the show is “Whale Wars: Some things are worth dying for.” Have you seen this shit? I mean, I love me some preeetty whales and all, but this is INSANE. I just watched two “Sea Shepherds” board a Japanese whaling ship, speaking no Japanese, trying to disable their harpoon.

The way they just swung on to that ship…

It reminded me of something…

Seriously, though. It reminds me of a line from an old Indigo Girls song I love…

“There must be a thousand things you would die for, I can hardly think of two.”

I would die for my kids… aaaaaand that’s about it.

I do love the planet, and the animals, and all that crap. But I’m sure as hell not going to fling myself on a full-speed whaling ship full of heavily armed folks whose language I can’t speak to save a damn whale. It’s little thing I like to call… common sense?

I dunno. I guess I applaud their passion.

What are you passionate about?

(Right now I am feeling fairly passionate about getting some sleep. Don’t Sudafed and Photoshop, people. You heard it here first.)

Why My Husband Wants Me To Stop Watching ER

Did anyone catch ER last night? Oh. Mah. Got. TEARS! I have been watching ER since the first season, through ridiculous plot lines, excellent acting, terrible casting choices, and random cheesy explosions. The only thing currently in my life that has been in my life that long are a few HS friends and my family. I have loyalty to this show (with the exception of last year– I fell off of most shows after the strike.) So there was no way I wasn’t going to watch its final season.

And last night?

Hooey, I tell ya. I haven’t cried that hard during an episode since the season I was pregnant with Noise. (Dr. Carter’s baby died that season, in utero. Along with about 5 other dead babies that season. Rough times, man.) In last night’s episode, we learned why Dr. Banfield is such a raging bitch to everyone that crosses her path. And of course the reason is? DEAD BABY. Specifically, her 5 year old son died in the ER some years ago, and Dr Greene (Anthony Edwards, I loved that character) was the doctor who treated him. It turned out the son had undiagnosed leukemia, had had a stroke, and mom (being a Dr.) just thought it was a febrile seizure, which her child had had before. She totally played down what was going on with her son, and while he likely would have died anyway (from his advanced leukemia,) she has been walking around with the ghost of “what if?” ever since.

Anywho. I went to bed sad and weepy, and paranoid about Funk.

What if?

What if during the two years we’ve thrown dose after dose after dose of Benadryl and antibiotics at my daughter, she’s had a debilitating, possibly life threatening illness the entire time? What if the thing that she needs to save her should have been done two years ago? What if I had been more aggressive in getting a diagnosis, and getting her well?

She hasn’t had a blood test for this cough in 12 months. She hasn’t had an x-ray in over 18 months, and that was just her head– not her chest. We’ve spent copious amounts of time and effort looking up her nose and down her throat, but what if the problem is lodged in her brain stem? Or in her lungs? Or in her trachea?

On Monday, my daughter is scheduled to have a CT scan. For this, she will be anesthetized, because she is incapable of holding still for the ten minutes the scan will take. I called today to do her pre-certification, and discovered that the orders for her CT are only for her sinus. And so I called her ENT. And I asked that her CT include her sinus, neck, and chest. Because if the problem with Funk is really in her chest, and not her sinus, we will have to knock her out again to do the chest CT in the future. Why not be aggressive in our scan, since we are a) already exposing her to the radiation, and b) already anesthetizing her?

They are going to think about it.

Getting a larger scan means more time, and might mean we have to cancel Monday’s scan. And that bums me out, because every night at 2am when I wake up to re-dose Funk, I think about that scan. That we might discover the diagnosis, and it might be something we can actually fix. That we won’t have to live like this anymore, pillows over our heads at night. That my daughter can finally sleep in peace. Trust me, I really want this scan to happen on Monday.

But if we have to wait to have a more thorough scan, I think that we will. I think it’s better to do it right, the first time, than to have regrets later about what we might have found. Even if it means living through ten or 14 more nights of The Cough.

Raging Heartburn

I haz it. Please send any remedies as soon as possible. Because I feel as though I might die.

Hand Check!

Apparently we were quite the imposition on Mr. Snoodle today. As you recall, after our somewhat troubling ultrasound two weeks ago, we were (eventually) scheduled for a Level 2 Ultrasound. You can totally exhale– Snoodle is fine, and as we predicted/hoped Snoodle’s CPC’s have almost completely resolved themselves. In addition to checking out his bubble-brain, the good doctor looked around for any other signs that there might be a problem.

Heart’s still great. Palate is still intact. Kidneys appropriately kidney-esque. So far so good.

A much stronger marker for Trisomy 18 is clubbed hands, so the Doc set about investigating.

Small problem.

My son couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of his junk long enough for anyone to see his wee little fingers.

I mean, he was really…um… focused.

The doctor moved the ultrasound around, to other areas, either affording Snoodle some privacy or waiting for him to bore of it. Eventually, he removed his hands from his… er… boyhood.

But then he started playing with his hands, wringing them together and toying with his fingers like an evil crony (eeeeexcellent, Smithers.)

It took a while for us to get the high-five we were looking for, but we did eventually get it.

Right before my boy went back to grabbing his junk again.

You know… some things never change…

Thank You, Veterans.

Brotherhood

Reposted from April 30, 2008

This is my brother Jon. He’s not my brother by blood– his mom is my stepmom. But I’ve known him since he was ten years old, and I really don’t get into the distinctions between “blood” and “steps.” He is my brother. That goofy smile on his face? Pretty much sums him up completely.

He’s on a boat, somewhere in the middle of the Persian Gulf. Smiling like an idiot.

But he’s not an idiot– far from it. Jon knows everything about every sports team ever. The summer I lived with him, after my sophomore year of college, I heard him practicing being a sports announcer every. single. day. He would commentate for the TV, for a video games, and even for sports events being held in his imagination. It was his dream at the time. I don’t know if it’s still his dream. (I’d like to tell you that being the unwitting audience for his hours of sports announcing was endearing, but at narcissistic 19, I was just annoyed.)

Jon is also the original Dr. Do-little. He’s a nut for anything animal, and can spout off biological facts that would make your head spin.

He’s a great dad. He got this experience early, when he and his high school sweetheart became parents at the tender age of 18 and 19. They have three beautiful kids, who are as smart as all get out, funny, and kind. Probably a little goofy, just like their dad.

He used to run through the house in his undies with (clean) underwear on his head, his sister’s little pink back pack on his back, and his socks hiked up to his knees, pretending to be some kind of crazy superhero. Then he would jump off of the couch, hitting the ground completely horizontal, and scamper off down the hall. I think he was like 14 when he last did that. (Trust me, it was hilarious.)

He tortured his little sister (our little sister) like hell, because she was 6 years younger, and cute, and kind of a whiner. Actually, he and my other brother, David, would tag team her and fart on her for hours on a Saturday. Good times.

He is the sweetest boy you will ever meet, though he is now technically a man both in years and in life experience. He’d do anything for anyone, is perpetually having the best day of his life, and constantly grins from ear to ear.

My brother is the face of our war in Iraq.

It would be easy to use him, exploit his situation, as a battle cry for my political beliefs about our war over there. But that would plain piss Jon off, and it isn’t really what I want to say.

What I want to say, is please be safe my brother. Please protect each other, brothers-in-arms. I can’t say that I know 100% why you are there, but simply that you are, and for now there is nothing for me to do about that but pray and wait for the time when you safe with us again.

And hope that when that time comes, you’ll be healthy and whole, and ready to move on to the next phase of your life. And that you’ll don the underwear on your head again– I just love that schtick.

1,2,3… Eyes on Me

We walked in, and heads turned. We were simply stopping in for lunch, after swinging by to visit Hubs at work. Beans kept the kids somewhat contained at our table, and Mom and I walked up to the counter to order. It took us a couple of trips, walking back and forth to deliver burritos and drinks, napkins and silverware.

I think it was on the second trip back from the drink fountain that I noticed being… noticed.

First it was a table of giggling 2o year-old girls, clearly newly awake from a loooooong Saturday night out.

Then an older couple, splitting a burrito and a soda quietly in a corner.

On my third trip taking one kid or another to the bathroom, it felt like everyone was staring at me.

I checked myself– was my 20-week belly hanging out? Did I have a baby boogie smeared across my chest? Was I trailing TP from my shoe?

I returned to my table, and I mentioned it to my mother.

She laughed. “That’s because everyone in this restaurant thinks that all of these children are yours, Mrs. Duggar!“

Sure enough, looking up, I saw us the way those surrounding us were seeing us. By coincidence, the children had lined up in the circular booth in stair-step order. My ten year old niece, my 9 year old nephew, my five year old nephew, Noise, Funk, and The New Baby sat around the table enjoying an amiable lunch date. Closing out the circle, I sat away from the table, leaving room for my ever-burgeoning belly.

I don’t really know why I felt embarrassed about it– for one, I would be lucky to have such a wonderful group of kids to claim as my own. For two, seven kids really isn’t that many, and nowhere near the Duggars or Jon & Kate. And also? Who gives a crap if they all were mine? Whose business is that?

My mom got a good chuckle about the whole thing. We left the restaurant, and as we made our way down the street, I heard comments and whispers all along our route. After a bit, my family and I parted ways, and it was just Noise, Funk, and myself. We sauntered the downtown toy store, and eventually made our way to our suddenly quiet home.

And suddenly, it seemed like three kids wasn’t going to be that big of a deal at all.