High and tight

We're not talking about major league baseball pitches. Nope - that would be too easy. We're talking about my cervix. It's sealed shut. It's never going to open. Ever. I am going to be pregnant forever. Well...or at least until the date of the c-section...which feels like forever.

I had my OB's stand-in's stand-in today. He actually asked me if I wanted him to examine me. Oh yes, sure, Doctor. Please stick your latex-covered hand (unless of course he pulls a The Hand That Rocks The Cradle move and then I'd just wind up having an asthma attack) into my most private and not-wanting-to-be-touched area right now. It would be MY pleasure. Really. And, when you're through? Bend over so that I can ram my left Croc up your...

"Yes, I would. I was having some pretty regular contractions yesterday, and I'm curious to know if they resulted in anything." Of course they didn't, seeing as though I don't have a foot sticking out of said private and not-wanting-to-be-touched area.

"Okay then." *pulls on glove* *inserts hand* "Hmmm. Let's see if I can find your cervix." Okay - what? Dude, do you even have a medical degree? What do you mean you have to see if you can find it? I knew I shouldn't have obliged to see this guy in my doctor's absence. His name is pronounced Man-Dip, for Christs' sake!

*rooting around, feels like he's looking for the pencil he lost on the way home from school in the third grade...which must have been, like....10 years ago?* "Okay - closed tight and high up. Any questions?" Yes - WHAT THE HELL WILL IT TAKE TO GET THIS CHILD OUT OF ME??

After that fun start to the morning I had the pleasure of lying flat on my back for 20 minutes (isn't that dangerous while pregnant?) for my weekly NST. The nurses love to poke their heads in and comment, with amused smiles, about how active this baby is. Yes, it's hilarious. I love having a shaking fist or tapping foot rammed into my rib cage at all times. It's so wonderful when she does whatever the hell it is she does to make it feel like someone's ramming a knife into my previously mentioned parts. (I saw Baby Mama with my mom this weekend. My favorite part of the movie? Amy Poehler's in labor, being wheeled into the hospital yelling, "Oh my God, it feels like I'm shitting a knife!" Yep. I feel you, sister.) When she turns circles nonstop in my uterus for 15 minutes, like she's high on my stash of codeine life, and then settles in the middle, sticking her coolie out so far that I swear she's going to tear through my flesh? Yeah - that's the greatest. NOW GET OUT!

From the mouths of babes

My son, spotting the neighbor spawn kids on their bikes: "Kids! Kids!"
Me: "Say hi to the kids. They're on their bikes."
Son, waving: "Hi, dicks!"

Full term

I am 37 weeks pregnant today. This baby needs to come OUT. I'm tired of not sleeping. I'm tired of being in pain. I'm tired of the homicidal mood swings.

Honest to God, if baby boy wakes up from his nap 2 hours early because the UPS man rang the doorbell, I'm going to hunt him down and castrate him. The UPS man, that is - not my son.

Anyway, as I was saying...(what mood swings?)

I think I'm going to pull my doctor aside in the operating room and tell her that I won't sue her if she accidentally slips and ties my tubes while she's moving my guts aside to extricate my fetus. Not sure when I'll do it - sometime between the dead man walking trudge to the operating room from the pre-op area (Honestly, why do they make you walk? Why can't they wheel me in a wheelchair? This is major surgery, for God's sake.) and the part where I get to have a needle rammed into my spinal column to prevent me from feeling any pain. This whole pregnancy thang must never happen again.

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Not with my regular OB, but with her stand-in. Watch MSNBC or CNN after around 9:30 a.m. If you happen to see a story about an insane pregnant woman who went postal when the doctor told her she wasn't dilated - yeah, that'll be me.

Eviction notice

Dear Gumdrop,

You are hereby requested to vacate your current residence no later than May 14, 2008 at approximately 1 p.m. However, today marking the full term status of your gestation, you are requested to vacate as soon as possible. You have not violated the terms of your lease, however you have overstepped several boundaries, leaving the property manager uncomfortable and displeased with the idea of you staying any longer.

In simpler terms - GET OUT!

Lovingly yours,

Your mama

Puzzled

I'm not quite sure how I managed to forget to put a diaper on my son before our morning out today, but yeah - it happened. Our final stop was to the park near our house so that he could play on the swings for a while. He started walking funny and asking Tizit? which is his version of "What the hell is going on here, mama?" while pulling at his overalls. I figured he had pooped and it went into the front, so I did the check-the-diaper swipe in his pants, except - there was no diaper. We had been out for 2 hours, and my poor baby was without a diaper the entire time. At least he knew not go go in his pants.

And yes, I did have my diaper bag with me - but the diaper bag rarely has diapers in it. Go figure.

The home stretch

I'm creeping toward being full term with this baby. Today makes me 36 weeks and 2 days pregnant. I need this little bundle out of me. NOW. I don't remember being this miserably uncomfortable with baby boy. Granted, I have about 30 more pounds on me now than I did when I was pregnant with him and I'm guessing that accounts for the discomfort, but Holy God in the Sky - it's awful being this big! I feel like a circus side-show and imagine that I look like one, too, when attempting to get out of bed, off of the couch, out of the car, etc. I don't remember what it was I did yesterday but it apparently looked pretty funny to baby boy, because he started laughing at the effort it took for me to do it.

I'm hoping to bargain with the doctor tomorrow to perform the c-section at 38 weeks instead of 39 if I haven't gone into labor on my own by that time. I thought repeat c-sections were typically scheduled for 38 weeks, anyway, but maybe that's just my wishful thinking.

As much as I'd like to avoid another c-section, I'm not confident in my ability to handle a vaginal birth. Any woman who has battled pregnancy constipation knows that some major effort is oftentimes required to rid the body of the poo - if I can't handle a little poo-removal discomfort, how in the world would I push out a whole person? Because I'm on a blood thinner, if I go into labor on my own I may be SOL as far as receiving any kind of anesthesia if so desired. It'll depend on the timing of the last injection with when active labor begins. There's always the drugs, I guess, but if I'm going to go through the horror experience of a true vaginal birth, I'd like to be coherent enough to remember the event.

I hope I'll know the difference between Braxton Hicks contractions and true labor contractions. Over the last 48 hours I've had some pretty good contractions of some sort. Not painful, more like my breath is being taken away and my insides are being squeezed. Seeing as though there isn't half of a fetus hanging from my va-jay-jay, I'd like to venture a guess that these are contractions of the Braxton Hicks variety. On a humorous note, there was a moment last week where I thought my water had broken. Turns out I just peed my pants. I pee a little every time I step out of the shower these days. Fun times.

I've changed my mind on the name for the baby. Again. Norah has been moved to the #2 spot. Elliotte's off the table. I'm keeping this one a secret, though. The only other person who knows of the name is Hubs, and he loves it, too. My faithful readers will just have to wait until the announcement of the birth to know the final decision. Speaking of which - the hospital has free Wi-fi, and I'm hoping to get my hands on a laptop for while I'm there. If I wind up going into labor on my own I would LOVE to blog through the labor process. If I wind up with another c-section then I'll need something to do during the baby's sleep time while I'm cooped up for 4 days. It's not like I'm going to have hordes of visitors. And, really - who can sleep in those awful hospital beds?

The bag is packed. The room is just about ready. The c-section is tentatively scheduled. I guess all I can do is sit back and let nature take its course or let the doctor slice me open. Either way, I know that life as I know it is going to change drastically and the feelings of excitement, some sadness (please be okay with all of this, baby boy, and know how much i love you and how much of my heart belongs to you. please.), and all-out terror are incredibly overwhelming.

And no, those aren't tears - the, uh...ceiling is leaking.

Wedding Bell Blues

I grew up in a small town where it was customary to honk your horn when driving by a wedding party gathering outside of a church. It was supposed to be a gesture of good luck, of solidarity; a way of celebrating with the newly married couple. The bride and groom and respective friends and family members would always wave when honked at, looking beyond excited and happy that someone wanted to share their special day with them.

Imagine my glee when we drove by a Catholic church yesterday on the way to taking baby boy to the zoo. I saw a group of finely dressed people as we approached the church, and the small-town girl in me bubbled to the surface, so I asked the Hubs to lay on the horn to congratulate the happy couple. I told him to keep honking 'til we passed the church - after all, I wanted the couple to know we were happy for them! As we inched closer to the church, though, I noticed that people weren't waving. In fact, everyone looked rather...well, melancholy.

It wasn't until a moment after the honking stopped and we were a good 50 feet past the church that I realized we were honking at a funeral party.

What?!

I'm often amused by the Google searches that lead people to my blog, but one that I noticed last night? Well, this one takes the cake.

And the award for Most Bizarre Google Search (and perhaps search-er) goes to:

The chap who searched for Frosted Fetus Flakes.

Hope you find what you're looking for, dude.

Verbal diarrhea

I'm quite certain the fetus is trying to push her way out today. Through my lungs.

I had the pleasure of encountering Amherst Mommy at Barnes & Noble story time again on Friday. She had the nerve to attempt to sit next to me on the bench (made for little toddler coolies, mind you - not really for pregnant behinds, let alone two behinds), giving me a my-shit-don't-stink look the entire time as she sauntered over. So what did I, the bigger and better person, do? Moved to the middle of the bench, giving her the same look back, taking pleasure as she rolled her eyes and had to *gasp* stand the entire time. The best part of the half-hour story time? Watching as she bent over to pick her screaming daughter up off of the floor and noticing that her BACK was hairier than her arms. No way! Back hair on men can be quasi-forgiven, but on a woman? Just...ew. I'm not talking about the peach fuzz that we all have - I'm talking full-out 'fro on her lower back...looked like Buckwheat was poking his head out from under her shirt.

Many of you commented that you try to avoid situations involving other moms. I tend to shy away from the places where the competitive moms like to go - playgroups (never!), Gymboree-ish places...too often I've found myself among moms who like to speak extra loudly, just to make sure everyone can hear her, about which milestones her child has reached early, how much of a genius the child is, and so on and so forth. I don't care how old your kid was when he started walking, when she started pooping on the potty, or what your strategy was for getting him to sleep all night. I like to spend my time enjoying my child - not talking him up to any willing ear. Over-compensating for anything in particular, mommy? Like, perhaps, your own downfalls and/or insecurities? Sure, I'm as proud as the next mom when baby boy says a new word or performs a new task, but I don't feel the need to share it with every person who crosses my path, and I certainly don't do anything remotely close to making sure everyone in the room knows it. I learned quickly what and how much to share, which questions are okay to ask and which make you appear to be competitive. I just don't feel the need to surround myself or associate with people who see fit to compare our children.

And now, the most important part of the post -
I've again been tagged by Matter of Fact Mommy to list 7 more random facts about myself. She finds me so darn intriguing, and I'm happy to oblige.

1. I tell people that I am allergic to bees so that they don't look at me funny when I run away screaming and flapping my arms when one comes within 100 feet of me. The bigger the bee, the more severe the allergy.

2. I find Jack Nicholson to be rather sexy. Not The Shining Jack Nicholson...more like wrinkly Something's Gotta Give Jack.

3. I'm terrified of my impending c-section. With my son, I went in to be induced and wasn't anticipating that he'd be presenting breech, so there was no time to worry about all of the what-ifs. This time, I'm imagining every possible worst-case scenario that could occur, and it scares me.

4. Ever since seeing the movie The Exorcism of Emily Rose, if I happen to wake up at 3:33 a.m., I lie in bed and say the Our Father until I fall asleep to prevent the devil from entering my soul. It's not because of my religion - it's because I don't want to become possessed like Emily Rose. It would piss me off.

5. I have no idea what I want to do when it's time for me to go back to work (when the kids are in school). Sure, I have my degrees in the mental health field, but I really have no desire to return to that. It has been too long. If money weren't an issue (is it ever NOT an issue?), I would like to volunteer with Habitat for Humanity to build houses (see previous post about my inner dude), or buy our own huge fixer-upper home and completely redo it myself.

6. As much as I hate being pregnant, and as rough as these two pregnancies have been, I'm a bit sad that this is the last time I'll be pregnant. I always wanted a big family with 4 or 5 children, but my health and our finances would probably never be able to handle it.

7. I don't think I'm all that amusing, but I've gotten comments and e-mails from acquaintances and strangers telling me that I should submit some of my blog posts to newspapers or magazines. I would love to do that, and would love an opportunity to do something like freelance writing, but my fear of rejection keeps me from doing anything about it. My fear of rejection keeps me from doing a lot of things...like having friends!

Embracing my inner dude

I love Home Depot. LOVE it. If I were a carpenter, contractor, plumber...and, well...a guy...Home Depot would be my wet dream. I love the smell. I love the guy-gadgets. I LOVE the paint section...I'm secretly envious of the Clairol #5 redheaded old lady who works behind the counter, having the power at her fingertips to give you the exact color you requested off of the paint sample card, or, if she doesn't like the looks of you, add a little more yellow or a little less raw umber, giving you not Stowe White, as you requested, but paint that is instead the color of infected pus. We made a trip to Home Depot over the weekend to get some supplies needed to finish up the baby's room, and I was prepared to leave there happy.

Until it was time to check out.

I have a thing about self-checkouts in stores. If the store is equipped with one of these glorious devices, then I have to use it. I have to. I tend to get into arguments with the computerized "lady" in the computer (or Jillian, as I tend to name every computerized checkout lady) at these terminals, though - she'll overcharge me, or register something twice or not at all, and then it turns ugly. I end up calling her something along the lines of "stupid checkout whore" and she usually ends up winning - which means an actual store employee needs to interfere in some way to enter his/her magical employee ID number to silence Jillian from her cry of "Assistance needed! Assistance needed!" Forcing me to interact face-to-face with an actual person? Oh, Jillian - it's on!

This trip to Home Depot, though, seemed to be without a checkout altercation. Jillian welcomed me and did her job expediently and correctly. She politely told me that it was time to pay, and when I went to select my payment method, smiling as I was pleased with the smooth transaction, I noticed that she was flashing me a sign on the monitor that read "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA." I reached over and tried to clear the message, but the screen continued to glare at me. "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA." Ohhh, Jillian - are you accusing me of shoplifting? We were getting along so well. And then I realized....no, this wasn't an accusation of breaking the law. My stomach - my swollen, aching, 35-week-pregnant stomach - was touching the bag sensor. No, Jillian was not accusing me of trying to steal an item from the store. Bitch was calling me fat!

Ohhhh, no you didn't, Jillian. It should've been on like Donkey Kong, but lucky for you the Hubs ushered me on my way. Besides - sticks and stones may break my bones....but I walked out with an extra paint stick and about 100 Mickey Mouse paint sample cards for baby boy, and you didn't even notice. Oh yeah - and a $200 gas grill.*




*disclaimer - the grill thing was a joke. a joke. the paint stick and sample cards are free, so if you're a lawyer or someone from Home Depot looking to sue me....well, you can't. come to my house and see that there's no gas grill. the sweet-ass cordless drill, though? well - i'll call it a gift. besides - i'm 4 weeks away from having my second kid. now i've REALLY got nothin'.


the drill. a joke. i long for a cordless drill. and one of those black and decker thingies that assists you in hanging your pictures straight by shooting a laser beam out of either side when you hang it on the wall. hey black and decker - since i'm too cheap to buy one myself, why don't you send me one for free and i'll give it rave reviews on my blog? e-mail me at mckenzie underscore haskell at yahoo dot com.

Baby baby, I'm taken with the notion....

....of just calling you Baby until you're old enough to name yourself.

Thoughts on these two names, dear readers. Hit me.

Norah Grace

Zoe Grace

Baby boy's name starts with N, so there would be some cute alliteration there if we chose Norah.

Been MIA for a few rough days. Be back with some witty post tomorrow. The ice cream parlor awaits my fat ass.

An Open Letter

To the Amherst Mommy I had the misfortune of sitting next to at Barnes & Noble story time this morning:

Where does your sense of entitlement come from? I'm curious. Maybe I can pick some of that up somewhere so that I can feel okay about being a bitch in public, both to others around me and to my own child, for no good reason.

I'm sorry you had to share the tiny child-sized bench with my pregnant self. I'm sure your surgically-enhanced body would've preferred a bench to itself, but...well, I'm big, I'm tired, and I deserve to sit down, but it was mighty white of you to ask first before you plopped down. I will say, though, that I found it a bit unnecessary when you continued to "tsk" and shoot daggers my way whenever I shifted to keep the sciatic pain to a minimum.

Oh, and your 22-month-old daughter? Is it really necessary to paint her nails, put sparkly eye shadow and lip gloss on her for story time? I mean, it's a little ridiculous that you put this on her at all, but for story time? I realize the tendency of the majority of moms in Amherst is to dress to impress - it's evident wherever you go here, but really - this is story time. Look around you. Most of us moms of children 2 and under are lucky to get without our pajamas on. I'm not sure who you were dressing up for, but you sure didn't impress any of us. In fact, when you left early? We all started talking about you.

Your kid, by the way, is a brat. I'm not quite sure why you forced her to sit through stories when she very clearly didn't want to be there. I really don't think the way you grabbed her and wrestled her out of her coat was entirely appropriate. Moms get frustrated - that's part of the job - but you're lucky I stifled the hormones and kept my mouth shut as I sat, watching open-mouthed, at the way you physically handled your child. It was disgusting. I understand the need to get out of the house - believe me - but I'm sure there was a coffee shop or nail salon out there with your name on it that you could've patronized instead, shipping your kid off to someone else to watch her while you indulged in yourself, as I got the feeling you often do.

Oh, and a word of advice. Next time, skip the Botox appointment and head over to an esthetician for some electrolysis. I've never spotted a woman whose arm hair rivaled that of Robin Williams' until I had the pleasure of being your seatmate today. Kind of ruined the effect of the $200 pink blouse you were wearing, know what I mean? I felt unclean just looking at those hairy beasts.

See you next Friday!
McKenzie

The name game

I'm 6 weeks away from the official end of this pregnancy, which is 40 weeks. I'll likely be having a c-section in 5 weeks, unless I go into labor on my own beforehand and the baby is in the right position...which, with my luck, will not happen. So 5 weeks to go until I'm the mother of 2. Under two years of age. When did this REALLY hit me? Yesterday afternoon, on the highway, driving to the library with my son. I had a bit of a panic attack, actually, at the thought of being trapped in the house responsible for 2 little lives. How the hell do women with 2 under 2 do this? How am I supposed to share the love? How am I supposed to keep my sanity intact? Well, it's not like I'm uber-stable now, but still - how am I to be assured I won't turn into Sybil? I asked my mom how you're supposed to love the second as much as you love the first. I don't think it's possible. She told me that you always love all of your kids, but you love them differently. You never have the same feelings for second, third, etc. children as you do for your first, but the love is there, and your heart inevitably grows. Being a second child myself, I'm not sure how much I like that!

Then there's the issue with the name. I'm over wanting to use a boy's name. So over it, in fact, that I'll happily disclose with you the name we were thinking. Ready? Drum roll, please....
Eliot. But spelled E-L-L-I-O-T-T-E for the sake of femininity. My husband loves it, still wants the baby to be named Elliotte. Me, not so much. I keep going back to my original name choice. Any time I attempt to "talk" to the fetus, comes to my mind - she just "feels" like a to me. Hubs hates this name. Thinks it sounds old. Know what? I don't care. Our son's middle name is after the Hubs' father. I think I should get the chance to choose this one's name. I'm carrying this baby, for Christ's sake. I'm the one who got fat, who threw up, who cracked a rib, whose other ribs feel as though they're going to shatter into a zillion pieces from the damn fetus foot lodged in there, who can't sleep...the list goes on. Get my drift? So where does that leave us?

BTW - I've taught my son the name that I've chosen - he said it for the first time today, and it sounded SO cute.

Perhaps I should create a new poll. Leave it to you, dear readers, to choose how to rectify this situation. Those of you who know the names I've chosen are with me on this one, with the exception of one person. If you feel like it, rock the vote.

In conclusion? Stretch marks are ugly sons-of-bitches. Didn't get any with baby boy. This time, they're big and bright and right in the front. Ugh. My stomach would qualify as something to be used to administer the Rorschach Inkblot Test.

Free association

Baby boy and I were eating our morning snack today, watching the "Host Chat" portion of Regis and Kelly, when he jumped up and, through a mouthful of toast, started yelling "Mama! Mama!" while pointing to Kelly Ripa. I can see how he'd be easily confused:

Kelly Ripa - Blond and styled, perfectly coiffed
Mama - Brunette, hair hasn't been washed since Monday, but I think there were probably remnants of yesterday's mascara still hanging around on my luscious lashes.

Kelly Ripa - 100 pounds soaking wet
Mama - How much does a compact car weigh? Because I'm certain that, during this pregnancy, I've surely surpassed it. And to be soaking wet would imply that I had a chance to shower. Not since Monday.

Kelly Ripa - funny. Sometimes.
Mama - Well, this one I can understand. I'm a regular comedienne. Hey - I performed at comedy clubs in NYC, so I must be a little amusing.

I guess I should be flattered. I find Kelly Ripa to be an attractive woman (but not in the same way that I find Angelina Jolie to be attractive.), so I guess my son has good taste. Makes me feel a little better about his obsession with pink tu-tus and purses in the toy store.

17 months

Look at this handsome little dude. There are some days I barely recognize my baby boy. He is becoming more and more a little boy, with his own opinions, his own likes and dislikes, his own way of doing things, and the ability to verbalize his independence.

He's so smart. His vocabulary is incredibly expansive. "Experts" say that, by 18 months, a baby (I refuse to call him a toddler - he will always be my baby) should have a vocabulary of at least 10 words. My husband and I compiled a list of all coherent words that he speaks and, at my last count, we were in the 70s. He picks up concepts incredibly fast. He's hilarious - already a comedian, just like his mama. He knows some letters and numbers. He can count to 2.

I could go on all day about the amazing things he does, but it would be of interest only to me, I'm sure. I'm just so amazed by his abilities and things that he's already capable of. I let him learn these things at his own pace. I certainly do not push him to learn his letters or numbers or words - he picks these up just from daily conversation. I credit this to the amount of interaction I've had with him since the day he was born, never using baby talk and always talking to him, even as an itty-bitty, as though he could actually comprehend what I was saying. I know many people who are in a hurry to grow their children up - enrolling them in school too early, just because they're intellectually capable, or rushing into things like potty training and toddler beds, all because they desire the convenience of having a "big kid" rather than letting a baby be a baby or a toddler be a toddler. These are the same people who will cry and complain when it seems as though their children have grown up overnight - we all know that our children will grow up - it's the most awful part of being a parent, I think, but these people are pushing for it to happen. Would I love to have a child who could go to the bathroom on his own at home? Absolutely. He tells me when he's going peepee or caca, and would likely grasp the task of potty training very quickly. But I'm in no hurry. Being in a diaper isn't hurting him.

I'm no one to judge - to each his own, after all, but what happened to allowing kids to be kids?

Impasse

We have no idea what to name this baby. I want to create a website that will allow all readers of the internet to vote on or suggest a baby name for Gumdrop. I want The Today Show to find out about it, do a piece on it, and turn it into a huge phenomenon. Could you imagine? Something like nameourbaby.com. She'd be famous - like Baby Jessica, only not for having fallen down a well at the hands of her irresponsible parents.

But mostly? I want this damn codeine to make the pain go away. I'd like to sleep tonight. Even Gumdrop is unfazed by it. I think she likes the narcotics already.