Sunny days, keeping the pervs away....

I obviously have Sesame Street on the brain today.


We don't let our son watch a lot of television. He's only 16 months old - he doesn't need to sit and watch tv. *Note - I know that some of you who read this blog are nicer than me and allow your babes to watch television. I'm not knocking your parenting style, nor am I claiming to be a better parent, so please don't feel offended or leave me nasty comments.* He actually shows very little interest in the television. I do turn on Sesame Street for him at 10 a.m., though, because he LOVES Cookie Monster and Oscar and The Count. They're his peeps. I also turn on Super Why (another PBS show) in the afternoons if he's awake, as he loves being a "super reader" and helping Super Why and his pals solve the puzzles...even though he has no clue what's going on. That's it, though. He doesn't even sit and watch them, but he'll occasionally look up from our playing or coloring when he hears a familiar voice or likes the sound of the music. I allow these shows because they're educational, they're totally kid-friendly. I don't have to worry about him seeing or hearing anything scary or confusing...he doesn't need scary or confusing at 16 months of age. These shows are safe.

Or so I thought. The "Elmo's World" portion of SS started at its normal time - God help me, an entire half hour - and Elmo announced that, today, he was thinking about going up and down. A lot. Perhaps it's my Catholic school girl upbringing, but the first thought in my likely unfit-parent mind was not "Oh, yay - a lesson about opposites." Elmo was all about the up and down today. He asked his neighbor Mr. Noodle, who lives with his "brother," the other Mr. Noodle (who can often be found peeking in Elmo's window), to show him all about up and down. Mr. Noodle's eyes grew wide and I think his face even flushed a bit. After Mr. Noodle's perverted demo of how a see-saw works (I say teeter-totter - am I the only one?), the Up and Down Lady came on. She announced how she LOVES going up and down and proceeded to sing a song about ohhhhh, how she'd go up and down all day long if she could.

I'll take what she's having.

It was like a train wreck. I had to watch. Finally, at the end of the segment, Elmo announced that he was going to sing his own up and down song...appropriately titled "Up and Down," and sung to the tune of Jingle Bells. He invited his friend Mr. Yo-Yo to sing with him. At the end of the song, Mr. Yo-Yo stood up, as any good yo-yo can do, and announced the following:
"I gotta go walk the dog."

I'm sure he fully intended for it to be yo-yo rhetoric, but the creepy way he said it, with his husky, throaty voice...well, you know what he really meant.

Now he's got his own game show....

REMOTE CONTROL!

Does anyone other than my own pathetic self remember this horrible show from old school MTV? Ken Ober, hosting a show about...TV trivia, I think...and if one of the stoner contestants answered incorrectly their recliner plummeted to some unknown location below the set.

In any case, it was the theme song to this show that kept replaying itself in my mind as I was lying awake in bed last night. An earworm, I believe, is the appropriate name for such a thing.

Sleep is such a rare commodity these days. Between a cough that I'm pretty sure is related to tuberculosis, heartburn that I'm confident could qualify as torture in a POW camp, and a fetus who has decided that the underside of my lungs seems like a nifty place to take up residence for the next 2 1/2 months, I don't sleep much. When I don't sleep I tend to think about the strangest things. Like sex. Why is sex so strange? 'Cause I'm not having it, and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to do it. See the reasons for my lack of sleep.

I also get on a kick with a game I like to call "I wonder..." It's played like this:
I wonder what Barbra Streisand is doing RIGHT NOW? Is she sleeping? If so, does she sleep on her back, her stomach, her side? What's on her nightstand? Does she get up in the middle of the night to have a snack? I wish I could have a snack right now, but if I did then that would mean starting the inhumane cycle of acid backup into my eyeballs, and really, it's too cold to get out of bed. But I really want a Stringsters. I wonder if Barbra eats Stringsters?

And I could sit there (or prop up in bed with 6 pillows, as the case may be) for minutes or hours and obsess and borderline mind-stalk poor Ms. Streisand until A) I fall asleep, or 2) someone else pops into my mind.

Like Susan and Olivia from the original Sesame Street gang. Last night I couldn't stop wondering what happened to these two ladies. Almost everyone else from the old gang is still on the show - with the exception of Mr. Hooper, God rest his soul - but not these two ladies. Did they move on to bigger and better streets? Did they get into a fight with one of the puppets? Oscar too much of a grouch? I don't get it. Where are they? Maria and Luis and Bob and Gordon (Gordon has a grown child! Susan, come back to your son!) and Deaf Linda are all still there - ladies, come back!

I could sit here and Google all day long to find the whereabouts of these gals, but the whiff of fresh poop beckons, signaling that nap time is over. Such is life.

Where does the time go?

Two years ago today I found out I was pregnant with the baby boy. In fact, it was probably about this time that I was buying the pregnancy test from the Duane Reade at 83rd and Broadway in Manhattan. I was at the gym, working out next to Jesse Tyler Ferguson from The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, close to two weeks late in my cycle, and I decided to buy a test. I hadn't been feeling well, but I chalked it up to my body detoxing itself from the raw foods diet I was on. Little did I know...

The cashier at Duane Reade had asked me if I wanted the test double-bagged so that no one knew I was carrying it. I remember smiling and saying no, that it would be a good thing if I were pregnant and I wasn't embarrassed about buying a test. I was going to walk to the movie theater to catch a film, but my curiosity got the better of me and I hopped the subway home. I felt bad about not waiting until the Hubs got home, but I had to know.

Yes, I had told the cashier that it would've been a good thing, but not a week earlier had I gone to see a high-risk obstetrician for a prenatal consult, and learned that, with all the risks I would have going into a pregnancy, it would be better of me NOT to try to conceive. He was/is supposedly the best in the biz in Manhattan, so of course I trusted what he told me. I cried about it for a few days and realized that we'd likely be adopting and never having our own
child(ren). So imagine my surprise when the Clear Blue Easy Digital Test reader gave a big fat thumbs up for being knocked up. I remember I almost fainted, right there in my tiny bathroom that those NYC water bugs so loved to inhabit, and immediately started to cry. I was TERRIFIED...after all, I was told that the chances of losing a baby were "at least 65%," and because of my history of clotting I would be putting my own life at risk. I called Hubs at work, in tears, and told him I needed him to come home. He correctly assumed what was going on and boarded the subway for his hour and a half commute home. It wasn't until after the fact that I learned he had received an early sign that everything would be okay with me, with the baby, with the pregnancy. Apparently, on the train, he asked God for a sign to let him know that I'd be okay, that this pregnancy wouldn't harm me in any way. Almost immediately, the train doors opened, and he heard a bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace" in the subway tunnel. Now, if you've ever lived in NYC you know it's not uncommon to hear artists and artist-wannabes sharing their gift with the patrons of the NYC MTA. But Amazing Grace? By a bagpiper? Strange. And, oddly enough, Amazing Grace became a sort of a theme of the pregnancy, and we both truly began to believe that everything would be okay. Examples? Our first time at church after the pregnancy was confirmed, Amazing Grace was the opening hymn. Out of the zillion hymns that exist, THAT one had to play. Coincidence? When we were choosing names, we looked to see the meaning of the name Grace, which turned out to be gift from God, and we pretty much decided that, if the baby turned out to be a girl, her name would be Grace. When we learned we were having a boy, we struggled over finding the perfect name. We eventually heard the name Nathanael, and each got a "feeling" about it, just knowing that it was the right name for our son. Upon looking for the meaning of the name, we were surprised to learn that it, too, means gift from God. Coincidence? I really don't think so.

I fell in love with baby boy from the beginning. Never in my life would I have imagined the awesome power that mother love has. Never would I have imagined that I could love someone so much. Sure, I love my husband to the ends of the world and back, but come on, moms - back me up when I say that there is nothing - nothing - like the love a mother has for her child.

I found a book today in Borders that I've been after for a while. It's a kid's book - My Mommy and I by P.K. Hallinan. I had purchased the companion book My Daddy and I for Hubs for his first Father's Day, and baby boy loves it when Daddy reads the book to him before bedtime. The mommy version has been difficult to locate, but finally, today, I was able to find it. While the boys were off exploring the books I quickly read through it and wound up with tears in my eyes. The perfect book for the day.

Ill-logic

Pregnancy logic:
I was slightly hungry, so I ate a disgusting Mama Celeste pizza. I now feel sick and have terrible heartburn, so I'm eating a gigantic bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats.


Pharmaceutical logic:
Have rheumatoid arthritis? Take Humira - you might wind up with lymphoma, but hey - at least your hands won't hurt!

Chronic nasal congestion? Take Veramyst - it'll probably give you a nasal fungal infection, but your nose won't run!

The logical mind of a 16-month-old:
"I'm so hungry, damn it, that I'm going to throw this food on the floor!"
"I hate having the sun in my eyes, so I'm going to pull this car window shade right down on top of my head and scream until Mama pulls over to fix it."
"I love to color so much that I'm going to display my work all over the freshly painted walls in our new house."

And of my husband...
"I want to make life easier for my wonderful, beautiful, pregnant wife...so instead of putting the new roll of toilet paper on the roll itself, I'm just going to put it on TOP of the roll...that way she doesn't have to reach an extra centimeter when it comes time to wipe."

Thanks for the mammaries

Breasts.

Boobs. Jugs. Tits. Ta-tas. Hooters. Funbags. My personal favorite? If you've seen the original Carrie, you'll recognize the reference - dirty pillows.

I can see your dirty pillows. Everyone will.
Breasts, mama. They're called breasts, and every woman has them.
They're all gonna laugh at you!

But I digress.

I have boobs on the brain as of late because...well, I don't think mine plan on stepping up to the plate (or cup, if you will) for providing sustenance - liquid gold, as it is commonly called - once Gumdrop arrives.

I was able to nurse my son for 3 months, although not exclusively. My intention from the start was to be at his side (or he at mine, I guess) every time he needed feeding, and for my body to provide the goods. I delivered him via c-section, and supposedly women who have c-sections find it harder to nurse. Something with the unnatural delivery of the placenta. I also needed to inject myself with a blood thinner for weeks and weeks while pregnant and after delivery, and according to my second lactation consultant (Freaky Freda), blood thinners can hinder the body's natural production of milk. So when my son lost a pound in the hospital because he wasn't getting enough to eat, I should've known from there that something was going to go amiss. It broke my heart to feed him formula - mommy guilt had already set in, and I was, after all, failing him and I felt like I was doing him a huge disservice.

The nurses couldn't figure out why he wasn't getting enough milk. One nurse told me I had flat nipples. Nope - no flatness there! These babies pop out like a jack-in-the-box monkey the second they get cold. Granted, they're not porn star nipples, but they do just fine. The first lactation consultant I saw (2 days after giving birth) blamed my Boppy pillow and told me to throw it out. Sure - let's blame the $39.99 piece of softness for my inability to adequately feed my child. No wonder you're a lactation consultant - you're a genius! She asked questions like "Did your breasts get bigger during your pregnancy?" Yes. I went from a 36B to a 38C. "Did you begin to see veins running down into your breasts?" Yep. Check. Creeped me out, too. "Did your areolas get darker?" Like the girls from The Hills in Cabo. They sure did. She was baffled and gave me the name of 3 other consultants.

I've never tried harder at anything in my life than I did to build up my milk supply. I rented hospital grade pumps to try to stimulate my baby's natural suckling and watched as my nipples were stretched out to lengths that I never imagined possible. When I wasn't satisfied with that pump and the amount of milk I was getting, I bought a top of the line pump, only to find that it didn't do much of anything other than mock me with the "whir whir" of its motor as it attempted to suck from me that which was necessary for my son's survival. I took fenugreek until my sweat and urine and deep thoughts smelled like maple syrup. I drank awful amounts of fennel tea. I mixed brewer's yeast into yogurt and ate it while gagging. Two lactation consultants and an entire La Leche League later - my milk dried up, just like that. Shortly thereafter, I was diagnosed with thyroid disease and was told that this was an explanation for my inability to produce adequate milk. I was prescribed levothyroxine and was told that I'd be taking it for the rest of my life. Jazzy!

So when this pregnancy was confirmed, I did some research and found that it's safe to take when pregnant and while breastfeeding, and that it would likely allow me to be successful at nourishing my baby-to-be because my hormones will be back on track. Sweet! Of course, it'll probably be discovered twenty years from now that it causes organ ooze and dysphasia, but hey - at least I should be able to nurse, right?

I'm thinkin' no. The girls? Well, they're not really any bigger. The veins? Can't seem 'em. Darker areolas? Not this time. Damn it. At this point last time, I could squeeze Burt and Harry (named them when I was 9) in just a certain way and make them drip. Not this time. This time it just hurts. I don't know if there's anything I can do to improve my chances of producing anything. I'm afraid if I Google the topic then I'll come across crazy rituals that involve drinking bat's blood, and I'll be so desperate to be successful that I'll try it.

I'm not knocking formula. As long as you feed your baby anything then you're doing your job. It just wasn't the route my husband and I wanted to take, and instead of enjoying the experience of feeding my son, I felt pangs of guilt with each and every suck he took of the synthetically produced garbage. It's damn expensive, and cleaning bottles is a pain. I know that I did what I could with him and I was hoping for at least the chance to be able to do the same with his sister. Perhaps the Boobie Gods and Goddesses will read my blog today, take pity on me, and bless me with some functioning jugs that will put Dolly Parton's to shame.

Otto Goes To Bed

I love Todd Parr. He's a children's author, and my son is in love with Otto Goes To Bed, a book about a loveable dog who would rather do anything but go to bed. But eventually Otto learns that going to bed brings forth a new day and new possibilities for fun. Learn more about the author here.

I've been inspired by Todd Parr to pen my own short story. I call it "Mama Stays in Bed," and I dedicate it to work-at-home-but-never-get-paid stay-at-home moms everywhere.


Get out of bed, mama!

But mama doesn't want to get out of bed. She doesn't want to think about all the things she has to do all day, like...

Making the bed...
Changing dirty diapers...
Doing the laundry...
And figuring out new and exciting ways to keep a 16-month-old entertained day after day after day while yearing for the opportunity to shower more often than every 3 or 4 days.

So mama stays in bed, ignoring the calls of her husband and child, and she dreams of all the fun things she wishes she could do all day, like...

Shower.
Have a cup of tea.
Read a magazine that isn't 4 years old, sticky, and in a doctor's waiting room.
Get her hair cut.
Go for a drive - just because - and listen to one of her cd's on the stereo instead of Laurie Berkner's Victor Vito on repeat for the 27th time.

But mama gets up, like she always does, pads down the stairs, and starts the day. Don't misunderstand - mama loves her baby boy, and would walk to the ends of the Earth and back for him through fire and bats and the landlords from hell - but boy, would she love a day off, especially before Baby #2 comes along and sleep as she knows it ceases to exist for-ev-er.

The end.

Todd Parr is way better at crafting stories than I am. That's why he's the author. I have advanced degrees in psychology, so I can analyze the daylights out of why he writes about what he does, but that's probably of no interest to anyone other than Mr. Parr himself. His books are difficult to find live and in person in the typical bookstore chains, but if you're so inclined, do a bit of Googling and read a synopsis or two - I guarantee that you and your child will love him as much as we do.


*disclaimer - this post was meant to be humorous, and to give a shout-out to the author of one of my son's favorite books. i didn't plagarize from mr. parr's book (i'm neither obama nor his speech writer), but simply adapted the story to tell my own. if you are mr. parr or some kind of representation for mr. parr and you see fit to sue me for alleged plagarism - don't bother. if you read my blog regularly, you'll know why.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

...well, then you must die.

Dear HP/Hewlett Packard -

Why, oh why, must you continue to manufacture and sell pieces of crap? Our first mistake was purchasing a desktop computer from you several years ago. Apparently under the influence of drugs, we decided at a later date to purchase one of your printers. After the long and painful and expensive death of my then-top-of-the-line photo printer I decided to give you another chance a few months ago when I made the decision to purchase the HP Photosmart C5200 All-In-One printer/scanner/copier. It received rave reviews by several personal contacts, and when one of them showed me the quality of the color photos it printed out, I was sold. We purchased our first C5200 from a major electronics store - it worked great for 2 days, and suddenly, out of nowhere, drivers started disappearing and the printer ceased to be. Several phone calls to your help desk later, we learned that it was a printer - not computer - issue, and you offered to send us a new printer in its place, and all we would have to do is return the old one...at your cost. Nice touch. We received the new printer in record time, installed it, and we were pleased to see that all was well. For about a week. Then drivers started disappearing again. Your techs this time around were not as helpful and owned up to the fact that this is an ongoing issue with this particular printer model. Four uninstalls/reinstalls later...this piece of junk still doesn't work. I can't scan. I can't print. I can't help but hate you.

I'm changing your name from Hewlett Packard to Hopeless Plastic. Or Happily Purposeless. Or third-rate, sub-par, devices-don't-work-longer-than-the-life-expectancy-of-the-common-housefly pieces of crap.

And since I'm on a roll...

Dear Crayola -

Look. You obviously have smart people working for you. You were, after all, able to make crayons and markers (or barkers, as my little one calls them) washable - a word that all moms everywhere yearn to see on the packages of anything that could potentially ruin/stain anything in the house. But come on - can't you do something to make your crayons unbreakable? Your Tadoodles, while a cute idea - are just useless pieces of plastic that you somehow feel justified to sell for close to $10. The pear-shape coloring utensils are, in fact, a good idea - but it would appear that most toddlers find it easier to grab them upside down, which defeats the purpose of why they're made the way they are. Okay - no big deal. Maybe your engineering peeps were having a bad day. Here comes the unforgiveable part,
though. Part of the appeal of the Tadoodles crayon is that it isn't supposed to break. Unless, of course, your child turns it upside down (which is necessary to be able to color with the thing), and upon doing so, notices that the crayon is anything but secure in the pear-shaped holder as it falls to the floor, picks it up, and breaks it in half. Also? The Tadoodles markers? They're only "100% washable" if you hover over your child with a damp paper towel while he's using them. My son's adorable once-tan-now-pink lion outfit can attest to that. I hate that what started out as a box of 16 fat crayons for little hands has turned into a Rubbermaid container of 9000 colorful wax bits. I love you, Crayola. I still get tingly when I open up a brand new box of 96 crayons. I find coloring with your products incredibly cathartic. In fact, my only reason for having one child and getting pregnant with another one so soon was so that I could continue to purchase your products and not get funny looks from the cashiers in Target. So do me - and moms everywhere - a favor, would you? Make your crayons indestructable. If a nuclear bomb were to go off tomorrow, I'd appreciate it if the crayons were still standing.

The ick factor

You know you're a mom when...

1. You go to take a bite of your toast, the one and only thing you have in the house for breakfast at the moment, and you realize, by the smell, that you you haven't quite gotten all of the poop out from under your fingernail from an early morning diaper change. The grossest part? You're starving, so you keep eating, since you probably already ingested some at this late point in the morning, anyway.

2. Your precious baby is sick, and you see that he's making that face - the face every mom learns to recognize - and you realize that he's probably getting ready to vomit. Before I was a mom, my first instinct would've been to run in the opposite direction. Now? I hold my hand under his chin, rub the back of his head, and tell him, "If you're going to spew, spew into this."

3. The sight of boogers used to repulse me. The mere thought of boogers could bring me to my knees...especially a toddler's boogers, which seem to have amazing, endless properties of elasticity to them. Now? If the dreaded booger bulb is nowhere to be found and my child has one visible in his nose, I'll just pick it out. And wipe it on my pant leg/bathrobe sleeve...whatever I have, because let's face it - who really has Kleenex around when needed the most?

4. Being sprayed with snot and Cheerios from a massive sneeze isn't quite as gross as I would've imagined.

And this pretty much sums up the last 7 days of my life. Jealous?

Little girls, little girls...

Seriously, what is it about having a baby girl that turns your average, not-overly-girly mom-to-be into someone who begins obsessing over bedding and blankets? I don't recall having OCD about baby boy's nursery decor while he was still in utero. Maybe my husband will disagree with me, but I just don't remember it being that way. I knew from the start which adorable jungle-themed bed set I wanted for his room. This time, I am obsessed with the color scheme for the new baby's room-to-be, scouring the internet for things that will match it. My latest obsession is the aden+anais swaddling blankets that come in pink and brown. I need them. I can't stop thinking about them. I've attempted to order them several times, but they're on backorder, and the shipping is astronomical and I always cancel out at the last second. I don't own a darn piece of clothing - or anything else, including Pepto Bismol - that comes close to resembling the color pink, yet I am pretty sure the fate of the world (and the nominee for the Democratic candidate for the presidency) rests on whether or not my daughter has these blankets.

Damn it. I happened to glance to my left just now. What did I see? My pink Razr. In all fairness, though, it's more of a fuschia color than pink. Okay. Enough of that. Lauren from The Hills has the same phone, so it's cool.

Also? Diaper bags. I was a bit more fanatical when it came to picking a diaper bag. I didn't want it to scream "LAME DIAPER BAG" therefore implying "LAME NEW MOM." I wanted it to be trendy, but not so trendy that it looked like I was trying to be trendy. This time, I'm looking for a diaper bag that is made for moms with 2 babies. I found one. I need it. I have to have it. It's uber-trendy and all the cool moms have one. It was featured on The View. I *could* use my current bag, but it's definitely a boy bag. I need a transgendered bag. I'm trying to gather the courage to purchase the bag online, but never in my life could I imagine paying close to $100 for something that will hold crumbs and be stained with spilled breast milk and spit up and will occasionally sit on a public restroom floor harboring e. coli and SARS and MRSA and crabs. And strange short and curlies.

I've gone off topic.

Could someone out there score me some Tessalon Perles? My primary care doctor doesn't seem to care that every time I cough I'm pretty sure my cervix dilates another centimeter. This would not be good, as I'm pretty sure the baby doesn't have eyes yet, and then she wouldn't be able to ogle and enjoy the fabulous blankets I'll be purchasing for her.

*disclaimer - i'm not *really* looking to score the tessalon perles over the internet - that would be illegal. although, if someone were to offer them to me it sure would take a lot of arm twisting not to accept them. seriously. this cough is a bitch. i neither advocate nor condone the exchange of drugs, prescription or otherwise, in an illegal manner. unless you can get me some tessalon perles. so if someone sees fit to try to sue me over that statement, go for it. refer to a post made on 11/30/07 - i *still* got nothin'...except this cough.

Milestones; Missing limbs

Hitting a milestone is supposed to be a good thing, right? So why am I not overjoyed at the thought of hitting a new weight milestone? A weight I never in my life imagined I would be? A weight whose number begins with a number I should never, ever have MY weight begin with? Surely it can't be my fault - this baby must be huge. Forget the fact that I polished off two batches of cinnamon buns that my mom made for me in record time. That has nothing to do with anything.

And? My feet? Gone. They have simply disappeared. It would appear that way, at least, for when I look down I can no longer see them. Instead I see a huge round mass that my 15-month-old lovingly refers to as a ball.

Mission accomplished

We're moved. The lousy apartment in the ghetto neighborhood is no more. The move was not without its bumps and bruises, though. But it would be too easy for things to run smoothly, no?

The hubs was in the ER the night before the move - when lots of packing still had to be done - and didn't get home until 3 the morning of the move.

One of the cats got temporarily lost.

Something got broken, but I can't for the life of me remember what.

It was raining and freezing and icy all day.

I wound up with the same crud that W was fortunate to acquire. I'm afraid I'm going to cough myself into an early labor.

The baby decided to spike his first real fever, instilling in his parents a sense of panic since neither of us knew what the "take-him-to-the-ER" cutoff was for a fever. I was floored when I learned it was 105. I once had a fever of 104 and was pretty sure I was dead, but no, I had just passed out in the doctor's office.

So the 3 of us are currently sick. I'm convinced that mine is the flu, and if it is, then this will be 2 for 2 that I've had the flu shot and wound up with the flu anyway.

I'm still getting used to the creepy new-house noises. I can't quite seem to figure out where the thing that sounds like monster teeth gnashing and serial killer lip smacking is coming from, but I do know that I won't be making any solo trips to the basement any time soon. I'm pretty sure the guy from The Blair Witch is down there.

Woe is me

Thanks to a minor heart anamoly, I have the extreme pleasure of having nasty caridac symptoms while pregnant. For example, my resting heart rate last evening (in the supine position, if you will), was 104. That's small potatoes, really, (my heart rate during my last pregnancy liked to hover in the 120-130 bpm range), but it makes me feel like impending doom is near - I can't breathe, I feel like I need to claw out of my own skin. It's pretty much akin to the symptoms someone feels while having a major anxiety attack, but for me there's a physical cause for it. Not to say I'm without anxiety - please.

Are you jealous of me?

I'm thrilled to be going in for an echocardiogram on Monday, "just in case." I love those words when spoken by a doctor - JUST IN CASE. "I'm sure it's nothing, but let's make sure....just in case." Ugh. Well, doc, should I start planning my funeral? Making arrangements to screen potential new wife candidates for my husband so that I know who will replace me as Nat's mama? Because when you say "just in case" to me, those are the thoughts that pop into my head. Then he felt the need to follow up with "Because, you know, the one time we don't run the test is the time that we miss something seriously wrong." Good Lord, sir, how many times has that happened in your practice? Put me on the list for a transplant now, then, would you? I'll even take a baboon heart like Christian Slater in that movie that started with the song "Tom's Diner" by the same woman who sang "My Name Is Luca," the names of both movie and artist escaping me at the moment.

On a happier note, I've been amused lately by the random thoughts that pop into my head in the middle of the night when the fetus sees fit to try to rearrange my insides with its feet. Last night's thought?

I wonder what Regis Philbin wears when he sits in his apartment watching television.