'Roid Rage

They start them young these days, I tell you. *sigh*

We've all the nasties the last few days. You know on House, how when the patient has a BRAIN BLEED SWELLING INFLAMMATION STAT! And they shave the head and drill through the skull to relieve the pressure? I want a Do It At Home kit. So, poor Baby A had the worst last few nights, just miserable and yesterday, his sinuses were so swollen that he actually had black eyes. I've never seen that actually happen, just read it in novels with ridiculously purple prose. He can't even nurse without popping off to take a breath. Poor thing. I am grateful, though, that he is older, because I remember what it was like to watch all three of them as newborns, struggling with RSV and not knowing how to breathe through their mouths. Oh so scary.

I couldn't stand to see him so miserable, so I finally took him to see our family doc, - he's a relative and a friend, his name is Phil, but was hastily rechristened Dr. Feel by a 20 month old Sir H upon our first visit to him - who saw a ridiculously inflamed ear infection. He prescribed an antibiotic and gave me a sample of something and said also Tylenol. I try to minimize the drugz, but this babe is miserable, so hells yeah I'm loading him up with whatever will help and get him to sleep and give him relief. When I got home from the pharmacy, I gave him the medicines, and that was awesome, because he likes taking medicine just as much as a cat.

As I was administering, I realize that the sample he gave me wasn't a decongestant as I thought it was, it's a steroid. I was in the middle of screaming bebe who hates everything and I'm KILLING HIM WITH BUBBLE GUM TASTING MEDICINE and so I went ahead and just gave him a dose. I crossed my fingers that he wouldn't turn into the feral Romulus or Remus that his brothers morph into when they've had to have a prednisone hit in the past, but alas. We have a feral baby.


Cute, but feral.


He spent today alternating between lunging out of my arms with all his strength, which is impressive for a 13-month-old, diving off the end of the couch onto the hardwood floor (thankfully, I caught him, since he'd been completely out of control all day and I was following him closely), DYING to nurse, nursing ravenously for 45 seconds, then shoving his body off the couch while still attached, racing away and smacking into a wall like it had suddenly appeared there and not been in the same place for his entire life, then pick up my iPhone and race off laughing MADLY and so hard that he could hardly breathe, while I chased him through the house and while I picked up my phone after he tossed it away, crashing into the dog and squealing into her ear while he flung himself on her like she's a throw rug...

ALL.

DAY.

No nap, no stopping.

At least he's pleasant about it. Unless he isn't getting what he suddenly decided he had to have RIGHT NOW, in which case he might just DIE and is going to scream and scream until he gets it.

Whew. Mama tired.

A conversation

Thing 1: "Mom, may I use some scissors?"
Me: "Sure!"
Thing 1: "Yessss! Thanks!"
Thing 2 (to Thing 1): "Did Mom said yes?"
Thing 1 (to Thing 2): "Yeah."
Thing 2 (to me): "GOOD JOB, MOM! YAY!" "You get a sticker!"

Yum, yum, yum. Delisi-OH-so!

Just finished cleaning up the crumbs from dinner - nothing left but a memory of what was the Katrina Cooks Puff Pancake! I have a cast iron griddle, but not a skillet, so I used a cake pan, preheated it and melted the butter in the microwave. I whipped the ingredients with some added Herbes de Provence in my KitchenAid standing mixer for about 5 minutes, while I shredded some cooked turkey breast and grated mozzarella.

Poured the butter into the heated round cake pan, then the batter, then sprinkled the turkey breast and cheese on top, popped that bad boy in the oven and 10 minutes later...golden deliciousness. It was fabulous! The cheese was bubbling on top, and just browning enough to know that you were about to bite into a warm mess of soft, thick, melty heaven.

What a great base recipe. I'm planning a arugula and Gruyere puff for early next week. Home run, and thank you to Katrina for the recipe, it was perfect! I dirtied 3 items, and it only took a max of 20 minutes including bake time. Thing 1 gobbled 3 pieces down, he's eating anything that isn't nailed down at this point in his life. Thing 2 puffed out his bottom lip and said, "Don't WIKE it!" and remained committed to his random hunger strike he's been on for a week, and Thing 3 signed "more more more more" frantically as he plowed through 2 giant slices. DPlayer and I both snarfed it down, too, and I was impressed that it looks akin to a souffle, so the presentation made me feel like a rock star, too.

Dinner WIN!

Sweet Boy Said WHA?

I got all purty the other day, since I was dropping off some candles to the boutique. Have I mentioned that? That I have a fancy-pants boutique that buys my candles? Yeah. That's right. So, anyway, I had to take the whole circus into the boutique and I wanted to look vaguely professional. I put on one of my favorite tops, a fitted red light cashmere sweater with 3/4 sleeves, my perfect pair of jeans and my "kick yer ass" boots. I'm usually in yoga pants and clogs or something, so the kids were all, "*Gasp!* WHAT'S HAPPENING?! WHERE'S MY MOM?!" And I had to quickly explain that no, we weren't going to the museum or to go shopping for new clothes, we were going to a very important place where Mommy does her business and work and they needed to keep their hands to themselves and not argue or fight or race or touch or do anything that would MAKE MAMA LOOK BAD OR I WILL WHOOP YOUR ASS....*pop* Sorry, that was my Xanax bottle again...

Anyway, I was explaining to them about the boutique and how we behave in places where there are lots of "pretties", and Thing 2 piped up, "Mom! I wike your red shirt! You wook so pwetty!" I stopped in my tracks and felt tears spring to my eyes (YES I get teary a lot with my kids I'll fight you in the back alley if you have something to say about it) and I responded, "You sweet boy! Thank you! What a kind thing to say! I like your blue shirt!"

And then he lifted up one neon-green-Croclet-enclad foot and grinned his Dr. Eeeeevil grin that means he's about to do something brilliant and turrible and said, "I STOMP IT OFF YOU!" and almost fell out of his carseat he was laughing so hard.

I love that kid.

It's the 100th day!

I blogged a couple weeks ago about the 100th day of school and this idea the school had to collect 100 things that can fit into a Ziploc bag, quart-size, and are to be sewn on a brand-new white t-shirt. I have had some random and serious butthurt about this assignment, due to the choking hazard issue to baby A, the collecting business (how the hell am I supposed to keep up with 100 small items when I can't even keep shoes on Thing 2?) and the whole gluing/sewing thing. Since he's - you know - SIX! I obviously will be the one doing it.

In my grousing, I received some great ideas, and we took one and ran with it. Behold my revenge:



My sweet little guy wanted his and his brothers' initials on it, so it reads "H B A" and then the pocket is outlined with bells, there are some on the sleeves and around the collar. I'm looking forward to hearing next year's plan for the 100th day of school.

These Things Just Happen

Late last week, the Three Things and I made a trip to the WalMart (argh!) after picking up the H-Man from kindergarten. We walked in and I saw a table set up with a group I recognized from a few previous encounters. This is what I know about them: they sell wooden crosses and they have some organization for youth and they are Christians and they are aggressive and they REALLY want you to buy their crosses and they make LOTS of notes in a blue binder as they interact with people. So, I was predisposed to walk quickly but politely past them, not particularly interested in being harangued and noted in The Blue Binder OF DOOOOOOM!

Of course, the crowds parted as we walked by, and the three munchkins wanted to touch and see and HI HOW ARE YOU?! and I'm gritting my teeth and pulling them into the store while trying to stay polite and calm, and yes, we are the only people around. So, the whole time, I'm chatting with my guys, just visiting with them, since I had just picked up the H-Dawg and holding the little dude, since he's 13 months and too wee to walk in the parking lot, and we're just hanging and having a good time. So, playing, playing, talking, chatting and playing and ZOMG AVOIDING THE SOLICITORS!, we didn't slip the trap, and start talking to the women. They turned out to be remarkably nice and kind. There were two of them, and one in particular began complimenting me on what wonderful parenting I was doing with the boys. She remarked about how many families they see entering and exiting the store, and how loving and kind I was with the little guys. I was really taken aback, and to be completely honest, a little suspicious that they were just buttering me up to try to get me to buy or donate, but I was flattered and really touched no matter the motive.

I told her how much her words meant to me, and she said, with complete conviction and honesty, "I can just tell how much you love your kids. They are really blessed to have you." Tears sprang to my eyes and I thanked her again for her kindness and her words of encouragement and apologized for not having any cash to give to their cause, and made my way into the store. We got our cart, taking a moment to settle six hands and feet into their proper and safe positions, when I sensed a flurry of activity behind me. The second woman who had been tending the table rushed up to me, obviously making sure to catch me before I headed off, and handed me a small, simple and beautifully dark stained cross. She said, "We just wanted you to have this. Thank you so much for being such an inspiration."

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I seriously cried.

Over the last 5 days or so, since this happened, this cross that was a symbol of my attitude of avoidance and negativity being turned into a blessing has been appearing in the hands of my children at random times, almost exactly at moments when I need an uplift. Suddenly, I will have Thing 2 appear with this little cross in his hands and he'll say, "Here, Mommy. Here's your cwoss. You weft it on da couch." Or Sir H will zip by and veritably toss it at me with a "Hey, you left this on the island Mom! I know it's your special!"

So, you tell me. What is it about life that makes these things happen? Just at the right moment.

Erp.

So, Thing 2 started puking on Wednesday night. Then I started up in the middle of the night on Thursday. DPlayer apparently is Mr. Important Man At Work and hauled ass to his job and my saintly mother came and rescued poor Thing 2 from a day of television and cookie crumbs while I lay on the bathroom floor and in the bed with Thing 3, who also wanted in on the puking action. Every time this business strikes, I remember how awful it is, and then it fades into memory.

Pray that Mr. President (Thing 1) doesn't get it, he has escaped so far. Now I'm off to scour the house with bleach and since it's already spic-and-span from the ridiculous CPS overreaction I had yesterday (SO WHAT SHUT UP), it shouldn't be too difficult.

PANIC!

Baby A and I have both been feeling nasty, so we've been at the ENT a few times in the last few weeks. I've seen this ENT since I was about Thing 1's age, so 6? 7?ish, and he knows my family like the back of his hand. He has a new Physician's Assistant, and we saw her last week for the first time. I loved her! She has four kids, and was really helpful and kind and thorough. When I called this morning, they fit us in with her again, and I was actually pleased.

During the exam, she noticed a bruise on Baby A's ear of all places, and I, in my exhaustion and sickness, responded mom-to-mom, "You know, who knows. He's at that stage where he toddles and loses his balance, you know how it is! HA!" She got all quiet and weird and I think I put my foot in it, people! I feel like such an idiot, like an airplane passenger who joked about sneaking a bomb through at security. So she made this note in his chart and then got all super sleuthy and now I'm convinced that CPS is going to show at my door tonight. I called DPlayer frantically, and he got home about an hour early and he whisked the kids out the door so I can clean and purge and be manic all over the house.

I may never sleep again. PANIC! PANIC!

Oh, and, apparently, I'm blogging instead of cleaning, but I just took out three bags of trash (I didn't even know we had three bags of stuff, much less three bags to throw away!), and I'm having dinner. SO THERE.

Also? I can't believe I'm actually posting this, and going to share this, but I'm firmly committed to talking about the things that "we" don't talk about because of embarrassment and are you KIDDING me? Having a CPS report is SO one of those things. Now off to clean and wait and wonder and wait and wonder and wait....

Day 100 of Kindergarten

Apparently, there are so few holidays and celebrations and cupcakes and parties and cookies and money and fundraisers and pencils and treasure box items and Clorox wipes and box tops and receipts and Promised Land dairy caps and Capri Sun pouches that we need to collect/be aware of/donate/celebrate that we made a new one up a while back! The 100th day of school! WHEE!

They have to collect 100 things that all:

1) fit into a quart size ziploc bag (and apparently they hate my baby, because that automatically is a choking hazard for him)
2) can be gathered and NOT LOST by Feb 2nd
3) can be glued onto a white shirt...which OH BY THE WAY!...

They also need to procure a white t-shirt that is new ) and you "may want to" glue the 100 items ON the shirt because they're going to wear them to school with the items on them? But still, [b]make sure they wear their uniform pants![/b] Bolded theirs. Of course, all this "they" and "theirs" and "they're" means "you" and "yours" and "you're" because he's SIX.

To sum up:
100 things (BE CREATIVE! That sound? That was me popping open my bottle of Xanax.)
choking hazards
have to buy a new t-shirt that's thick and heavy
gluing on 100 small items on a shirt, which sounds HEAVENLY!
no one ever misplaces anything around here
uniform pants!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :nono:

Give me something awesome and creative and fun to do instead of pennies, because I can see where this is headed right now. Pennies. The night before. With lots of wine and profanity. Or just Xanax. And profanity. Always profanity.

The Longest Day

Remember how I was going to be blogging during homework time? Yeah. Well, see what had happened was? Life had come undone? And I had fallen down the rabbit hole along with it? So, the day after I posted the previous blog post, I couldn't get my laptop to boot up. I went to borrow DPlayer's laptop, and in the process of signing in, stumbled across an email from this girl. Long story short, inappropriate entanglement, not an affair, but too much investment outside the marriage, things improved a little, we coasted, then one random night, we just had this THING. And I never know where to draw the line with the oversharing, so for now, and since it's late, I'll just say that he blew up at me in front of the kids and dropped a few f-bombs. I immediately told him to leave, he refused, I got the baby and left, went to sob at my parents' house, fun times ensued.

Weeks passed, he dug in his heels, decided he was going to die on that hill, and with great sadness, we told the boys that Daddy was going to be moving into a new house and they would be visiting him there. That was awesome. I'll just step outside the story for a moment and say that seeing the look in their eyes at that moment, and seeing how they reacted to that - nothing makes you feel more like a failure at parenting than revealing to your 5 year old and 2 year old that Mommy and Daddy suck and that their firm foundation of family can fracture and break all around them. Thing 1 initially thought it was a great idea, thinking we were all going to have a second residence, Thing 2 got it immediately, and withdrew into his train table Thomas set. I kept trying to talk to him and see if he understood, and he acted like he couldn't hear anything I was saying. It was awful. And looking back, I'm feeling angry all over again that DPlayer put the onus on me to do it, and that I went ahead and did it, because he "just couldn't", and he got to sit there in suffering silence with tears while I did the Bad Guy Storytime.

Finally, after asking him lots of different ways about his feelings, I flat out asked Thing 2, "Are you feeling bad?" and he nodded, without looking away from his trains that he was making crash violently into each other. I said, "Oh, honey, so am I. I feel so bad and sad. I'm so sorry. This is very sad." He looked up, with a thunderous look on his face, and furiously said to DPlayer, "Mommy and me are sad. We feel bad!" And went back to wrecking the Island of Sodor. The effects on Thing 1 happened more over time, and as usual, manifested themselves in anxiety, a constant need to please and do everything and hoard toys and not throw anything away and always know where everyone is and what time it is and are we on time to school and did you sign my folder yet and what if A flushes my toy down the toilet and did you forget to start the washer Mom Mom MomMomMomMOMOMOMOMOMOMMMMMMMMMMMMM?!

My precious boys. I just don't deserve them.

Thankfully,I happened to have a maintenance appointment with my [s]drug pusher[/s] psychiatrist, and he was floored when he found out what was happening. He sees DPlayer for his ADD and has a separate relationship with him, and when he found out that D was moving out on the upcoming Friday, Dr. Drugs asked me to reconsider if he could come up with a plan that I felt comfortable with. I agreed, I told him that I would do anything and everything within healthy boundaries to save our relationship.

So, thanks to Dr. Drugs, we are seeing a new highly specialized and amazing psychotherapist who is highly adept. We don't see her nearly as often as we would like, due to childcare issues and DPlayer's work schedule, but the sessions with her, and our monthly sessions with Dr. Drugs have managed to extricate an actual marriage from what used to be a pile of ruins. It's hard work, but I am feeling for the first time in a very, very, very long time, as if DPlayer actually wants to be married and do what it takes to stay that way. I've missed him very much.

Because I am getting some affection and fulfillment from my marriage, I am again finding energy for things outside of simply treading water just enough to keep breathing. I no longer want to drive my car into oncoming traffic, and so, I look forward to blogging more often. No promises that I will do this every day, let's just call a spade a Danielle and realize that I am unpredictable. We will all be much happier.

I HATE SCHOOL! Update: WE LOVE SCHOOL AND HATE HOMEWORK!

I'm wondering when kindergarten became the new third grade. This kid has about an hour-and-a-half of homework per night. I pick him up, we get home and he is Free Range Kid for about 30 minutes, then we get right to the work. He generally has two worksheets a night, I need to initial his accountability folder, we go over the letter he's working on and the memory verse that goes along with it, and BAM, it's 5:00. Time to start eating dinner for these guys. And I haven't even started making it yet. It's 5:30 now and he's finishing his number sheet and this has been the easiest day so far. Yesterday? And I'm NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING we had an epic homework battle. One of us was lying on the floor moaning, "I HATE KINDERGARTEN!" and the other one was on the phone with DPlayer, out of earshot, hollering, "I HATE KINDERGARTEN!"

You'd think that was the nadir, right? Well, you'd be wrong! From there, it actually devolved. It was ugly. There may or may not have been stomping, tongue-sticking, screaming and general mayhem. There were multiple time-outs and door-slams just as exclamation points at the end of tantrums. All in two hours! We're gifted in this house.

Today has been so much better. As I finish this, we just put away the folders and he rocked four worksheets in the same time it took to plod through 2 yesterday. Ohhhhhhhhh...I just realized yesterday was Monday. YAY ME! Note to self, and to those who will remind me - Mondays take extra patience and will usually be difficult as we adjust to a new school week. I really do love his school, I better, since we're paying for it. Extra, on top of taxes, that is. He's in a small private school this year, which we chose for a myriad reasons. Because you are just RIVETED, I will expound on that in another post, but for now I will just say - small. private. school. and leave you hanging. It's time to feed the zoo.

I promised!

So my new resolution is to set aside the time that the kids are "doing homework" to update the blog. And by "doing homework" I mean that the 5-year-old brand-new kindergartener whines about having to scribble with crayons all over his coloring sheet that is apparently of überimportance in the formation of his formal schooling, while the 2-year-old chatters and colors his coloring book and the 8-month-old alternates between screaming, grabbing at the papers on the table and racing for crayons to eat as they hit the ground. Somewhere in there, I've also been trying to make dinner. And cure cancer.

Now, instead of getting grilled chicken with pie nut couscous and some edamame for dinner, the Dawgs are going to have to be content with frozen pizza and a carrot and a mom who has spent a few minutes doing something adult and that makes herself feel autonomous. Quelle horror! They're going to be thrilled.

O HAI!

Dear blog,

I am sorry that I've neglected you. I'm sorry that I left you bereft. I thought of you many times, but as time passed, and distance grew, I became more and more convinced that what I had to say would be trite, meaningless, after such a long separation. I'm finally taking a deep breath, and typing these words in the hopes that you and I will manage to repair our breach, the chasm that has developed oh yea these many days. I look forward to visiting you often, to breaking free of the chains of fear that have kept me silent.

Until tomorrow (oh yes, I shall return tomorrow),
The One Who Missed You

Enjoying it while I can

About a week ago, Sir H. informed me that in Finding Nemo, "their Danielle died". As my name is Danielle, I was surprised, because I usually remember when characters in movies or books share my name. I asked him to repeat what he said, and he told me again that "their Danielle died". When asked to elaborate, he said, "You know, Nemo's mom and Marlin's...um..." "Marlin's...you know, his Danielle." I asked, "Marlin's wife?" He said, "Yes! Marlin's wife. You know, their Danielle." I realized, he was talking about their - ME. Wife/Mother/Female = ME. I'm a generic now, like Kleenex. It made my heart swell an insane amount.

A few days after that, he drew a picture at preschool of our family. He told me that he drew me "like an angel". When I asked him why, he said "because angels are sweet and pretty". Y'all. Seriously. Could I be any happier? Also? Totally reminding him of this when he's 15.

PS

It's mah birfday on Saturday. :)

Head Pats and Snuggles

I give 'em all the time. I want some. Boo-hoo, me. Tonight, I did get a little petting. Baby Taz turned 2 on November 1st, and his big gift was a bunk bed that rocks my socks. We got Sir H the canopy for his top bunk, which, when the lights are out, reflects ambient light on the little white spots and makes it look like stars, or snowflakes. Y'all, it is heaven on earth. Sir H was coming into our room every night about 2-3 am, and as he prefers to sleep his-knees-to-our-kidneys, it was getting really old. He informed me that the canopy "doesn't let bad guys or bad dreams in", so he's all set, thank you very much. Taz (no longer Baby, fill in all those conflicted maternal feelings we feel as our babes grow up), has eschewed the awesome and comfy lower bunk (whose mattress sits directly on the floor, ergo, making me feel as if it is safe enough for him) in favor of sneaking up to Sir H's top bunk and entangling himself in Sir H's limbs, there dozing off into blissful sleep. Sir H loves it. Honestly.

Point being, my now 2-year-old, my almost five-year-old, my 33-week pregnant belly, and my 5'9" self were all crammed into the top bunk (yep, it's a twin size!) reading tonight. I turned the light out and as Sir H was juuuuuuust this side of sleep, I wanted to stay until he dozed off all the way. I was lying in between my precious boys, one mostly asleep and still, and the other just wiggling and humming and whispering stuff that I could NOT understand, but he didn't care, and I already felt blessed. Then, these tiny 2-year-old hands reached out for my face, and started patting my cheek. He sucks his thumb, so he was madly getting after his thumb with one hand, and with the other, rubbed and patted my hair and my face for a solid minute or two. I just about swooned. Then, his fingers wandered to the front of my face and he attempted to drive his pointer finger into my eye socket, so I figured that the patting and snuggling was over. I just love them.

Taking care of Mama

I've been really struggling lately. I was reevaluating my medications, my sleep habits, my diet, all the things that can make one feel off or grumpy or just plain weary. Everything seems to be in order, and I'm not having any emotional or physical symptoms that would be red flags for depression or anything, so I was really confused for a few weeks, wonderful what the hell is wrong with me. It clicked a few days ago: I'm all tapped out. I'm touched out, I'm pregnant-ed out, I'm giving-ed out, I'm patient-ed out, I'm altrustically void. And guess what? That's.....OH-KAY! It was actually a really interesting (to me) way that it clicked, I kind of have to be smacked in the face to really get that I'm not taking care of myself. So many of us are other-focused, especially with young kids and a household to run, or a career, that we neglect our own care until we are in shambles. So, I needed a big old SIGN FROM THE UNIVERSE, apparently.

I was putting away some papers into my obsessive-compulsive outlet file folder that keeps me from going crazy, and I stumbled across a few pages of notes that I made about a year ago. It was the first meeting of my new group that I was heading up at our old church, which focused on praying for our kids. I really feel passionately about moms taking care of ourselves, so my whole first group meeting was focused on taking care of yourself so that you can take care of your kids. I sat on the floor and realized that for the last (how long have I been pregnant? Thirty-billion years?), I've been putting the oxygen mask on the kids over and over and not only putting myself last, but neglecting to put it on at all. You know, like in the event of an emergency, on a plane? No? Okay. Just me, then.

Rereading my notes, I rediscovered this story. I don't remember anything about the origin, I don't remember finding it, but I remember that it made me feel the same way then that it did today.

A few hikers in the forest came across a man attempting to saw down a tree. They offered to help, but he politely declined. Upon their return trek, five hours later, they saw the same man, at the same tree, still sawing, and not having made much progress. One of the hikers suggested, "Why don't you take a moment to sharpen your saw?" And the man frantically replied, "I can't! I'm too busy sawing!"

How many times have I sat there and tried to parent, tried to clean, organize, accomplish, change, and I am left feeling thwarted and frustrated? But if someone comes along and suggests that I shine up my parenting, cleaning, organizing, et. al, tools, my immediate response is one of shock and denial. I CAN'T go get a massage! I don't have the time! The money! The willingness! I can't get my hair cut! I don't have a babysitter! But when I plan ahead, and make those things happen, my tools are sharpened, and I think we all know how much better we feel and how things just seem to go much more smoothly. It doesn't have to be indulgent stuff like manis and pedis, either. I have given up feeling guilty for napping when Baby Taz naps, when I could be foldinglaundryvacuumingpickingupknittingmakinglistscooking the list is, literally, endless. I stop and play cars when Sir H asks me to. But guess what? If I really don't want to play cars? I don't. And I'm working on not feeling guilty about it.

A while back, I was talking to my daddy about the anxieties of parenting and the worry I carry around about screwing up my kids. Another common concern among mothers, I know, and because I already deal with an anxiety disorder, I can really allow myself to get bogged down in it. I was having a great conversation with my wise father about it, and I said something quite close to, "Because, you know, taking care of my kids is The Most Important Job I will ever have." He became quiet for a moment, thinking, then responded, "I disagree. I think your most important job is taking care of your kids' mother."

As if that weren't kick in the pants enough, I was talking to my mother last night about some difficulties, and she said, "It breaks my heart that I can't take care of your problems for you. So, will you do something? Will you take care of my daughter for me?"

Okay.

Okay.

I don't know how, but I'm learning.

The Pregnancy

Well, if the Old Wives' Tales have any validity at all, this little sucker is not only a girl, but a really strong-willed one. This is most definitely our last baby, The Huz and I are in more than 100% agreement about that. There will be no Business Happening until someone gets fixed permanently, of that we both agree. Ergo, I'm doing all those things I always wanted to do. First, we're not finding out the sex of this baby, second, I'm committed to not getting an epidural barring unforseeable complications, and third...um, something else cool.

But, wow, how different this one has been. With the boys, I felt nauseated with them, fairly constantly for a few long weeks during the first trimester. With this one, I was chained to the toilet, or had to carry a plastic bag with me from week 6 until week 16. Now, that's what I call FUN. I had no trouble sleeping with either of the boys, I napped like crazy and slept 12 hours at night. This time, I'm plagued with insomnia and lie awake for hours at night, no matter how exhausted I am. I'm also carrying very differently, my belly is all out in front and straight and all my weight is in the belly, which is great, but with both boys, I got a little heavier everywhere, and I carried much further back in my body. I also have a fantastically uncomfortable umbical hernia, which is really becoming exacerbated now that the belly is getting bigger. Anytime I sneeze, laugh too hard or forget to tighten my (quickly vanishing) ab muscles, it pops out and oh, it hurts. It feels like a particularly sensitive bruise, and any time it is touched, even if I accidentally brush it against something, it radiates pain. Super comfy. Of course, the boys think it's really cool that my belly button (or "bey butt" as Baby Taz calls it) sticks out so far, so they're always randomly poking at it, and wow, it's almost always unexpected. Then, of course, it's high-LAR-ious that Mommy jumps that high when we stick our finger in her bey butt, so let's sneak up on her and do it again!

I'm coming through much of the ambivalence to a place of peace and excitement. I've had some really wonderful bonding moments in the last few weeks, and I hold on to the thought that each time I've been pregnant, I've been terrified. That pregnancy, for me, is definitely not the exciting thing. I'm not a woman that loves, or even particularly likes, being pregnant. I didn't particularly like being engaged. I was engaged for the purpose of being married, and I'm pregnant for the purpose of mothering my sweet babies. Now that I have two pregnancies under my belt, I can at least accept that even if it does make me cold-hearted, pregnancy doesn't do a thing to make me feel all warm and cuddly, but once that baby is born, I will sacrifice anything and everything (except my other babies) for that child, and nothing can come between us. I don't really believe it now, but I do know it will happen.

I wonder what the baby will look like? It's fun to postulate. For some reason, the sex isn't all that important to me anymore. I was so scared of having a girl that I could have fainted, but now, I can see all the wonderful attributes of having a daughter. When Sir H started his preschool year at the beginning of September, we had Annual School Haircut Day, and the big boys (The Huz and Sir H) lined up for cuts. I had just gotten a Mini Boden catalog in the mail, and had spent at least an hour poring through the pictures of the younger boys, trying to find a style that I liked that would work with Sir H's hair. I had it narrowed down to three, and the next night, I excitedly took the pictures into the dining room at dinner to show the Huz and Sir H. I sat down and told them that I had been looking through the catalog, had some pictures to show them, elaborated on each hairstyle and how it would work with his hair texture, and then asked them for their opinions and looked up as I waited for their responses. My eyes met a blank stare (Sir H) and a slightly frightened and overwhelmed wide-eyed look (The Huz). We sat in silence as about 5 seconds ticked by, and I finally sighed and said, "I need a daughter, don't I." Sir H recommenced shoveling food into his mouth and The Huz took a deep breath when he saw that he was off the hook and nodded his head emphatically, just happy not to have had to make a choice.

For the record, the haircuts turned out seriously kickass.

The Joys of Dorkiness

So, I'm pulling out of the Chili's parking lot (the baby was demanding a molten chocolate cake), and I'm imagining telling The Huz about my doctor's visit and having the conversation in my head about what I wanted to tell him about my weight gain and how I'm getting close to my personal limit, and I was getting all worked up about my unhappiness about gaining 3 pounds this month, even though I know it's not that much, and I am totally talking out loud, as if The Huz is there in the car with me, because that's how I roll, right? So, I'm backing up, and I realize all at the same time that not only am I using facial expressions, emphasizing words and USING HAND GESTURES, but I'm also being stared at by a dude with his girlfriend/wife, whom, I realize, has been staring for longer than a second, and thinking that I have lost my damn mind. For some reason, I was so embarassed that I cared what Someguy thought that I TOTALLY put my hand up to my ear, as if I were wearing a Bluetooth, and kept talking, as if I WEREN'T crazy, and had been actually on the invisible phone the whole time and it was all cool and whatevs, dude, so quit staring. I'm pretty sure I even laughed breezily at something "The Huz said". I scare myself. Your turn. Please.

I've been avoiding putting up an update

because not everyone knew about our news! However, my sweet mother is so excited that as of last week, pretty much everyone that would read this in my real life has been informed that we are expecting a third babe, and now that the shock and awe has (mostly) worn off, we are getting pretty excited! The Huz just got back from a three day trip out of town for work, and I got quite overwhelmed wondering how I would handle three small people all on my own in times like that. But, I remember two years ago, being terrified about adding a second child, and wondering how I could possibly be a good mom to two kids at the same time, and my boys seem fairly content, so I keep hanging on to the idea that we'll figure it out the same way.

Since this was quite the surprise, we don't have an exact date for the arrival, like we did for the boys, which is quite the challenge for a person who already struggles with anxiety. It's been a battle to let that go and remember that the baby will arrive when s/he is supposed to, and we do know within a few days, at least, when the conception happened, but I like to know Exactly When That Was, so I'm learning in this journey, too, as often happens. Funny how that is. We plan to find out the gender, but since I'm only 10 weeks along, we have time until then. I've been knitting tiny things like crazy, and my first pair of longies seem giant for a newborn, but may fit a one-year-old, so they may go in the drawer for a long while! Knitting newborn pants is much faster than knitting something for Baby Taz, that's for sure (pictures coming soon to show off my new yarn)!

Anyway, when we first went in to confirm the pregnancy and that it was viable and healthy, and get dates, it was just a few days too early to see a heartbeat, so all we saw was the embryo as a white spot inside of the gestational sac, so baby's nickname became Spot, and has stuck with him or her, ergo, when I reference Spot, it will be the little guy growing in there and making me sick all day long (hopefully not for much longer!). Spot's due on Sir H's birthday, on 12/31, and we'll see how that pans out when we get close, my best guess will be that the arrival will be a few days before that, because I think the conception was actually two days before, and I think I will follow the pattern I've set with the boys: Sir H was birthed at 40w6d, Baby Taz at 40w1d, and I think this one will be either 40w1d or 40w on the dot (or spot, heh).

Feel free to make gender and birthdate predictions, love to hear them!