Things They Don't Tell You About Labor: Part 1

Okay, even after going to school for 900 years, delivering a few hundred babies or so and counseling multiple mommies-to-be on what to expect during their pregnancy and labor, I can now safely say that until you've actually gone through it yourself, you have no clue what is really going on. Now that Ollie is here (in case you missed it, he showed up on 8/9/10 at 5:58 pm) and I've been on the other side of the whole ordeal, I'd like to pass on a few pearls that I will definitely be incorporating into my spiel (possibly not in this exact language) to wannabe and actual preggers if I ever go back to work again.



1. Braxton-hicks vs the real thing: Now, I've been shot down by many other women who've had babies when I've discussed my feelings on this topic, but, that's just too bad. Here goes. So I had the 'practice' contractions from about 24 weeks on, but not seriously until about 34 weeks. Right about the time I took a little holiday to Louisiana and StL in the middle of my last trimester ( I know, genius) I got a little dehydrated and overexerted myself and got to feel the tightening in the belly and the firmness that wouldn't let me push my finger into my belly to pursue my only form of exercise and favorite daily activity of annoying my baby by smooshing on him. I even would occasionally feel some pressure in the nether regions and all that jazz.



This was nothing compared to the real thing. For all you chicks out there on the show "I didn't know I was pregnant" and all those high schoolers delivering in a bathroom stall because they weren't sure if they were in labor or not, I'm calling bullshit. I had my first REAL contraction on August the 8th at 3:14 pm. It's like how everyone knows where they were when Kennedy was shot, it was so different and painful and took my breath away that, even now, I can picture exactly where I was standing at the BMX race, under the tent, in the 100 degree heat, unable to move or release my death grip on the chair I was leaning on. They continued on and got SIGNIFICANTLY worse throughout the evening until finally at 10:30pm, when labor officially started. At that point, I was like someone with an acute appendix because every 3 minutes for the three hours I stayed at home and tried to 'sleep it off' (not a move I recommend, fyi, but a doctor can't be running into the birthing unit unless she knows FOR SURE she's in labor or risk the entire nursing staff talking about what a dumbass she is in the event that she is not in labor any of the seven times she makes the journey), it felt like my entire abdomen and pelvis was being squeezed in a vice by someone trying to pull a bowling bowl through my vagina.



It was interesting, though, that in between said attempts on my life, I was perfectly fine. One second, I'm cleaning the bathroom floor, the next I can't breath/talk/stand/sit/move for a minute and then I'm right back at it with the clorox. I think that's why my hubby was somewhat reluctant when finally at 1:00am, I woke him up with the announcement that we should probably go to the hospital right-this-second-now. I was secretly sure that I was like 7cm, but there will be more on that later.



2. When you realize you're really having a baby, you kind of lose it. In my case, my hubby pulled up into the ER garage (when you go in to labor in the middle of the night, this is the only way into the hospital...who knew?), and I got out and started waddling through the ER like everything was fine and hoping no one noticed me as I snuck up to the family birthing unit. Unfortunately for me, this was not a typical Sunday night and there was no one in the ER except all the docs and nurses I get to work with all the time. Everything was fine for about 3 seconds until the first one saw me and asked the horribly intrusive and awful question, "would you like a wheelchair?" This was apparently enough to make me realize, yes, I was indeed here to have a baby...and he was coming out through my vagina...in a very short time. It was at this point that I turned into a blubbering fat puddle of goo and despite my protests that, "no, I'm not in pain, I'm fine, I just need to get upstairs"(which I'm sure didn't sound that coherent as I previously mentioned I was a blubbering fat puddle of goo), EVERYONE in the ER came over to 'help' (read stare at the poor blubbering fat puddle of goo with 'poor crazy her' eyes) so my entrance to the hospital was less than as incognito as I'd hoped.



3. Better living through medicine: I've had the talk with my patients literally thousands of times about pain medicine in labor. Do they want anything, what are the options, what would I do, yada, yada, yada. Well guess what? I just re-wrote that whole convo because there's not a chance in hell that I could have gone through with that whole labor charade without the magic of the epidural. So, I get into the triage room and it was like my uterus said "okay, it's go time" and the contractions instantly picked up the pace and the intensity to the point where I was autistic-like rocking on the bed trying to breathe through them...to no avail. The nurse checked me (remember I was sure I was 7cm and he was falling out at this point) only to inform me that I'd sat at home for hours through all this pain to change from the 2 cm I'd been in clinic to a whopping 3 whole centimeters dilated. STFU, is what I was thinking as I said, 'well, I guess we can go home if I'm not in labor (silently cursing myself at this point and simlutaneously wondering where I could find a drug dealer this time of night to take care of this pain if she did indeed agree with my horrible suggestion).' She assured me, I was indeed in labor from the frequency of my contractions and the little change I'd made and got the okay from my doc to give me a little taste of nubain while I was waiting to transfer to a delivery room and get my epidural. FYI, it's a little known fact that nubain has another name and is better known as 'sugar water.' That's right, after not taking a single pain pill or having a drink in the 9 months of pregnancy, I was sure that a narcotic would drop me to the floor. This was soooo not the case and the nubain or 'nothing' as I like to also call it, did just that for my pain. It did however curb the waves of nausea, a pleasant little side note, in an unexpected flash of serendipity. More on that later.



Anywho, I got to the delivery room and my best anesthesia buddy in the world tossed in that epidural as quick as he could have whipped up a salami and cheese sammy and I was off in dense, deluded happy drug land from then on out. That is, until I was 7 cm and because of all of the flipping back in forth in bed to keep my epidural even on both sides, the catheter came unscrewed. READ I went from complete numbness from the waist down to completely aware of every pain receptor from the waist down in about 8 minutes flat. In the 13 minutes it took us to realize what had happened, call the nurse who called the anesthesia angel, him to come hook me back up and give me a hit... I mean bolus of narcotic, I was fairly certain that I would die. I'm not joking. Apparently, those contractions I'd been having when I couldn't feel a thing had done a number on my body as they were VERY strong. Having been contracting every 1-3 minutes for 15 hours by this point was a pretty good workout, I suppose since when the epidural wore off, I was clutching the rail in a death grip, hyperventilating, tears streaming and sure I was screaming. My man tells me later that the only reason they knew I was in a lot of pain was because I was not talking through this period of time. Who knew I should have been playing poker all this time? Anywho, they hooked that bad boy back up and I was good to go within 20 minutes, like nothing had ever happened. Take home message: who cares if the epidural may or may not prolong labor (juries still out). As long as the epidural goes well (and doesn't fall out mid-showtime), I couldn't have cared how long labor was taking as long as I was comfortable. 15 hours or 20 hours doesn't make a huge difference at that point.

More to follow, but this mug is getting to be pretty long. Trust me 20 hours of labor brings about many more pearls, daniel-son.

Sleep and National Geographic vs Lord of the Rings

First Trimester

My dear friend sleep,
How do I love thee, let me count the ways. We've always had such a mutually beneficial and respectful relationship through my youth and this, I am very grateful for. Those 12-18 hour sleep marathons in high school, college and med school are what dreams are made of...literally. I can't sing your praises loudly enough as I appreciate the renewal and sense of peace and fulfillment you bring me. Due to my increase in fatigue during this period of my life, I'd like to say thanks for hanging in there and reviving the good ole' marathon schedule. Who knew growing a person would require so much shut eye and energy.
Forever yours, Me

Second Trimester
Dearest sleep,
What an interesting time we've had of late! I can't imagine where you are coming up with all those wicked dreams, but they sure make the exorbitant amount of time I'm spending in bed pass much more quickly. Thank goodness the fatigue has passed and now I'm able just to enjoy my sleep and feel refreshed as this little monster nudges and flips and kicks away in there. Not to be picky or tell you how to do your job, but do you think we could work in some 'good' dreams or at least if they're going to be x-rated in content, I actually know the players? Thanks again.
Your friend, Ko

33 weeks
Dear sleep,
First, I'd like to thank you for the opportunity to get at least 2-3 hours of quality time with you before having to get up and visit the washroom...2-3 times each night. I know all this waking isn't YOUR fault, so much as that of that mean-spirited bladder of mine. I'm trying to work things out with him so that our relationship is no longer affected. Please have patience as I'm doing everything I can to assure our time together remains special and pleasing for us both. Thanks for at least making an effort to change the crazy dreams, as I'm sure you did at the request of your old friend, and I'm sure that with time I'll be able to 'deal' and 'get over it' as you suggested.
Yours, Ko

35 weeks,
Hi Sleep,
Just wanted to drop a line to apologize for my 'little' freak out when I saw you hanging out with my bladder. I just had never imagined that you were friends as I couldn't think of anything you'd have in common...other than preventing me from resting as I grow a human in my belly. Haha! Just kidding, as I'm sure that's not the case...right? I'm sure the 'deep connection' you two have is squarely outside the realm of torturing me, your longtime allie. I appreciate you trying to talk sense into him as his new trick is to now have me wake every 1-2 hours and then to be wide awake as I wonder where you've gone. I know that I said I heard you two snickering as I lay wide awake for 2 hours the other night, but you're right. I did not hear two 'distinct' snickers so that was rude of me to assume of you.
Thanks for being understanding, Ko

37 weeks
Sleep,
Um, yeah. I guess I'm a little out of sorts right now as I never imagined us having this conversation. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt when it came to you being 'just friends' with my bladder, but now that I've caught you red handed, I'm more than a little dismayed. Between you and your little buddy, I'm now waking every 30-90 mins, not falling back into bliss and getting a total of 4-5 hours of broken rejuvenation each 9-11 hour night, if that. Seeing you two pointing and laughing at me while I worry about the lack of sleep affecting my baby and my mental health, was not only hurtful, but unforgivable. Did you forget that I also have a 7 year old that has more energy than a hamster on Red Bull to deal with each day following these restless nights? Or do you just not care? Did I really hear that you two have moved in together? Does our history mean nothing to you? That Bladder will betray you, just like he did me, and he'll leave you high and dry in 3 weeks or so and I won't be there to pick up the pieces.
Kourtney

38 weeks
Ha,
I told you that I didn't need you. Between my new friends, swimming and caffeine, I barely have a second each day to even think of you. I wouldn't take you back if my life depended on it. Swimming has really stepped up to the plate to help my whole body relax, not just my mind like you used to, and really has been great to Will too. You know, Will, my 7 year old who you never gave the time of day? Yeah, him, jerk. Oh and you would LOVE caffeine. Cappucino, soda, chocolate, you name it. He's always around to perk me up, make me laugh, and in general make me feel like a million bucks. And if he starts to dissipate, guess what? There's always more! He's NEVER not available and is always thinking of what he can do for me. Oh, and tell Bladder hi. Hope all the caffeine I've been running through there isn't a problem and the withholding of liquids after 3pm probably doesn't bother him either. You two deserve eachother!
Koko

39 weeks
I don't know how you got caffeine to turn on me but the crashes are more frequent and worse than when he wasn't around. And thanks again for not even letting me rest mid-crash when my head is pounding, my eyes bloodshot and my hands shaking like I just stepped off the electric chair. Oh, and you're welcome for swimming, too. Like I was supposed to know that with no rest or caffeine, I wouldn't even have the energy to float, let alone swim. You are a selfish friend stealer and you can all go suck it. I'm done. Ass.

Birth
Ahhhhhh. Sweet, sweet sleep. Maybe if you had let me in on the plan that you were tiring me out on purpose so that when my little bundle of joy arrived, I would be able to sleep when he slept and be awake when he was, I'd have been a little more patient and accepting of your discretions. At this point, I still want nothing to do with you as the joy and high of motherhood continues to keep me going despite your near absence. I have noticed your effort to help me drop into a sound slumber at the drop of a hat and this will be noted as you try to worm your way back into my life. How does it feel to be on the other side of the fence, not needed or wanted and lacking in purpose? Keep at it and I'm sure my forgiving soul will let you back with time...and lots of RPattz dreams (the good kind).

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Ah, to be in the last month of pregnancy and experience all the further changes to your temple...well it used to be a temple. Now, your body is an unrecognizable salvage yard for all the fugly, mismatched body parts leftover after a frankenstein family reunion got ugly. At my checkup last week, I actually informed my doctor that between the brown spotty melasma taking over my face and the 'breastfeeding ready' nipples that have elongated to that point that they will pretty soon necessitate buying them a bra of their own, that it's turning in to National Geographic up in here. So people, don't be surprised if you see me on the cover of the mag and no, I didn't join some remote west African tribe.

If that picture wasn't good enough to help you skip your mid-morning snack, then let me enlighten you to the other fun happenings of this week. I've changed my name to Frodo as my hands and, especially feet, have swollen to hobbit-like proportions. You know it's a problem when you can neither grasp a pen to write out a grocery list or fit into your extra large flip flops (got forbid any shoe with a form) without leaving deep marks on your feet that threaten their long term circulation and thus, life. Whenever I think of Lord of the Rings, I always imagine the slimy, dirty bogs and places they travel around in which reminds me of slime...or shall we say mucous. I won't go into detail here, because it turns my stomach as it is, but a mucous plug that comes out whole is disgusting enough. Imagine if it decided to break up and come out in a few fun pieces every day...for a week or longer. You may find yourself constantly on 'plug patrol', doing more laundry and changing undergarments multiple times a day and don't even think your husband is getting anything other than the Heisman if he even LOOKS like he's thinking about getting within 3 feet of you. You may be prompted to flee the room yelling 'NO VACANCY!' to which he later asks if you've started taking any new meds or something. I'm just saying. We're 37.5 weeks and planning to get things started this weekend in the labor arena so stay posted!

Being pregnant is so awesome, it kinda sucks

Let me catch you up on all the news from the 35th week. An ultrasound showed that the little man has plenty of fluid and room in his current accomodations and also is coming out head first. I would be more excited about this fact, except that the three doctors in the room during the ultrasound all caught their breath, commented on the larger size of his noggin, and one actually said, 'You know that has to come out of your vagina, Kourtney.' Yes, I'm aware...a little more every day when I contract away and his XL head smooshes down just that much further into my pelvis and against my bladder, helping me to emit the new eau de preggo. Not a big deal when you smell like pee all the time, you just find yourself hanging out by old people and babies so that way you can pass the odor off as theirs.

Another fun and suuuuuper exciting event from this week was seeing the doctor. I was halfway through the week and had been contracting quite a bit so we decided to have a 'look see' and check my cervix to see what was going on down there. Now, having performed this exam on hundreds of women at various points in their last month of pregnancy, I didn't think much of it. As I now know, I did not have an appropriate fear or hatred of this exam and I now will hold off on putting patients through this joy until absolutely necessary. The innocent little check took like 5 minutes (or 30 seconds) and left me with one foot on the table, the other on the wall, one hand in a deathgrip on the head of the bed and the other bracing the opposing wall from the one my foot was on. During this contortionist trick, I also had a ridiculously strong vagal response, also known as coming within inches of embarassingly passing out without your pants on. My doc, who happens to be a pal, was actually amused by the colors changing on my face from ghostly white, to so-green-I'm-pretty-sure-you're-going-to-ralph-on-me, to bright red and flushed...and then I started to breathe again, or rather hyperventilate on the order of a woman who actually did just push a grapefruit out her kiwi. My giggle happy doc then says, 'you are going to be so fun in labor, I just know it.' To which I responded that she should check out my previous post centered on the idea of 'suck it.' Laugh all you want now, chica, because you're stuck there with me and my crazy behavior and elbows deep in the business end of things, so ha.
At least one good thing was discovered during this harrowing event...the fact, that this party is getting started early. Based on the changes that were already going on down South, we've surmised that he's my captive for only 2-3 more weeks if we keep up the current rate of contracting.

I thought that this news of early arrival would make me joyous and that I'd be out exercising, cleaning, having sex and doing anything possible to continue the contraction party. In fact, the exact opposite happened. I find myself sad that all his little kicks, punches, head butts, squirmy disco moves and general state of unrest are something that will soon be over. One of the best things about being pregnant is carrying around this little 'mouse in my pocket' who I can talk to and dance with and moves all about when he hears my voice or we're rocking out in the tank. Whenever we're out with Will or John and have to make a decision, we automatically have a majority as I pretend he, of course, would vote along party lines with me. I doubt Will will believe me that Ollie does want to go to Target instead of the splash pad when he sees that he actually doesn't speak and his main concern is pooping and drooling. Will is going to be somewhat shocked, I have a feeling, when he realizes that Ollie is not the talkative, little opinionated mofo that I play him out to be. Also, at least for right now, he's hand free. He eats, sleeps, plays and chills out all without me carrying him, having sore nipples, changing a diaper or wondering why he's crying. He's about to become a whole bunch more high maintenance than mama in a couple of weeks.

I don't know if it's me subconciously trying to prolong his descent or if this is just what happens the second the clock hits 35 weeks, but I've become almost inert. I sleep in 30 minute to 2 hour intervals, waking every 1.5-2 hours to pee or change position as one of my legs is asleep or my hips are screaming out in pain, getting a total of 4-6 hours per night on average, prompting me to re-discover the deliciousness that is known as the daytime nap. 9-10 am and 4-5pm are my fave times when I could pretty much sleep through any natural disaster. Looking past the sleep deprivation, my energy level in general pretty much just bites the big one. Swimming one lap in the pool winds me. Going up one flight of stairs is exhausting. Folding laundry, driving to Target, sitting down to pee...all of these things require a superhuman amount of energy that I can't seem to muster. My To-Do list is growing by a page a day and I'm lucky to get 2-3 things done in an afternoon.

I'm also starting to ponder the possibility that I could may be newly pregnant in addition to the almost finished cooking monster in my belly. All of a sudden, I'm RIGHT NOW STARVING for the most unhealthy of delights. My now gigantour-sized melons are hurting all the time. We've covered the exhaustion. It's like the first trimester all over again, including the constant fight between your desire for intimacy with the baby daddy battling it out with the threat of you going all Bobbit on him if he even looks at you the wrong way. Anywho, as I'm nearly falling asleep with the energy output required to keep typing, I'll finish here. Stay tuned for what's sure to be titillating tales from the final weeks countdown to the little man's entrance...or exit depending on how you look at it.

Put your hands up and spread 'em

You dirty, dirty minded children.

As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.

So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.

This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.

The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.

Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?

Hello July

So, I finished work yesterday. Really, it was last Friday and I've been doing 'paperwork' for the last three days which consisted of sleeping late, running errands, lunching with Ann and the occasional stop by the office to sign my name to something. Can I just tell you how much fun it is to not go to work everyday? Don't get me wrong, I love what I do the majority of the time. Yeah, we all get a little whiney and have a bad day and curse the thought of ever deciding to go to medical school, but most days I am happy with my choice and realize how lucky I am to be in the field I'm in. On the other hand, not working is totally awesome. It's just that there are some things that I hadn't realized happen when you stay home with a munchkin that I've learned quite quickly just over these past few days.

First of all, being a housewife or stay at home mom is actually pretty busy when there are kids involved. Will may sleep in til the late hour of 6:45am or he might sleep til 9:00am, prompting you to sneak into his room and make sure he's still breathing. You never know so it's not like you can stay up late watching a movie with the hubby and say, 'oh, I'll just sleep in tomorrow.' Maybe, maybe not. Also, when you're married, there's a new wacky trend to share a bedroom with your significant other. You know, the one who gets up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work in the same room you're sleeping in. You'd never say anything about the lights on and off, windows shades opening letting in the 'glorious' sunlight and doors opening and closing because you know he's 'trying' to be quiet and going to bring home the bacon so that you don't have to. But sometimes you think, 'huh, this sucks that I'm awake at the buttcrack of dawn so maybe if I slept on the pullout this wouldn't happen.' Then you remember how much you love your big comfy bed and snuggling the man at night and how much closer your bed is to the bathroom when compared to the pullout and decide that maybe you can deal...for now.

Along with erratic bedtimes, there's the ever fluctuating mood and energy level that children are famous for. Who knows if he'll be in a pouty mood or a sunshine happy mood or a tired mood because he didn't get enough sleep, but refuses to nap. Or my favorite, the 'I got 12 hours of sleep and now nothing short of a straight jacket can control this kind of crazy' mood. When you spend ALL DAY with a child who's constantly running on full steam, laughing like a crazy person at everything, spazzing out at every store you go to because 'the aisles are just so long!', and screaming 'I love samples' upon entering Sams Club, it's hard not to run the other direction when your spouse gets home so you can have some peace and quiet. Your hubby will then act surprised that you aren't up to going to soccer or BMX or playing outside because he doesn't know how physically and mentally exhausted you are from your daylong adventure...every single day. I honestly don't know how people who teach kids all day long can go home to their kids and still have the energy or brain power to have a fulfilling family life. These people must be superhuman.

When you stay home, you also become the maid. I know, I know. This should not be a shocker. The chores you were normally splitting after work and taking precious minutes away from time you could be spending with your family or eachother, can now be done during the day so you can both chill out at night. That makes sense and all, but it still sucks. Nobody LIKES to clean everyday. Even if its laundry one day, sweep and mop the floors the next, vacuum the floors and couches after that. It still sucks that it's all your job now and you start to think that dealing with drug seekers and sick kids may actually be easier than staying at home.

I also have a new found understanding of why stay at home parents meet their spouses at the door and word vomit instantly upon their arrival. They've been talking to a kid all day. Now the good thing about chilling with your offspring 24/7 is that you really get to know them and they tell you all kinds of things that you probably wouldn't have heard otherwise. The majority of your convo's revolve around tech decks and flick trix or 'remember when we went to Florida...that was fun.' The school yard banter is sweet and all, but sometimes leaves you dreaming of a discussion about why Mrs. X's kidney function is all of a sudden in the crapper. (Will will one day kill me for posting this, but I still giggle everytime I think about it.) One priceless chat went a little like this:

We're having a bath the other day and talking about how tall Will is getting and he's like, 'I'm growing so much my bones hurt, especially when they get all stiff.'

To which I reply, 'yeah, sometimes you can have a little pain when your arms and legs are growing quickly.'

He says (completely straight faced), 'no mama, not my arms and legs. When the bone in my junk gets all stiff, it sticks out straight and won't lay down. I don't like it.'

First off, this is when you realize multiple things: A) you should quit using the work 'junk' to describe the goods and maybe go with a more anatomically appropriate label, B) you're never allowed to laugh when you're kid talks about his 'junk' or he looks at you with the saddest little 'I-thought-we-were-bonding-and-now-you're-mocking-me' look, and C) he's growing into a little man which makes you sad at first and then paranoid at the fact that all these precocious little 7 year old girls keep asking to come over for a 'play date.' I'm not trying to be a grandma before I'm 40...or 50.

Along with joining the housekeepers union, when you don't work outside the home, you also become the chief errand runner...aka everyones bitch. We need groceries, the car needs an oil change, the car needs a new parking sticker, we need to mail this package, the kid needs new socks, etc. All the things that used to get done after work or fit in between clinics or surgeries or on lunch hours or a random day off are now your job while you're sitting at home doing 'nothing' all day. Do you mind? No, because really what else is going to give you an excuse to take a break from cleaning all day, right? Between the chores and cleaning and keeping the boy entertained all day, there's nothing very relaxing about being a stay at home mom. Especially when you're growing a person who plans on coming into the world in 7 weeks or so and, thus, makes sleeping or finding a remotely comfortable daytime position completely impossible.

Enough crying in my cinnamon life about how busy I am. I am staying home for the next few months and I am happy about it. I just have a new respect for stay at home parents because it's not all daytime TV and bonbons. It's a freaking full time job and you should not feel guilty about spending your working spouses hard earned dollars because you're earning your share all day long, too. God (and John) knows there are no guilty shopping feelings here.

Hater-ific

Alright people, do I look like freaking Clark Griswald? No. Will I ever drive a mini-van, a regular, big 'ole cargo van or a station wagon? Not on your life. My mom had a kick-ass black and silver astro van that she rocked pretty hard core and that all us kids loved and spent loads of time in while she carted us between here and China for all of our extracurriculars. That's my mom, that's not me. Why is it that as soon as you are impregnated, everyone imagines that you can't wait to get your swollen little hands on a damn Dodge Caravan? I know that lots of people have them and lots of people love them, but that's not me. It just isn't in my being, my fiber, my...anything. For the most part, the majority of people that know me, didn't expect anything different when I finally bought a car. However...the majority tend to keep their cakeholes shut and it's the annoying haters that can't quit their yapping about your personal decisions.



So, you may have heard that my little bambino's impending arrival prompted me to lose the 13 year old wheels and pick up the closest thing to a tank that could be purchased for under $1 million and was street legal. I was looking for the Porsche-designed German Panzer VIII Maus but my husband nixed the idea labelling it as a 'crazy pregnancy emotional fit' (as if) but I think he didn't like the idea because I wanted it in pink...with a sunroof. We compromised and picked up the most tank-like-but-still-pretty SUV to protect our little monsters. It's pretty and huge and safe and comfy and has an awesome stereo and sunroof and rides high enough that you feel like you're in a semi-truck and can totally eavesdrop on all the cars you pass, which is Will's new favorite game. 'Hey mama, guess what that guy was doing?' I love it, but am scared at the same time that he's going to have an early education on what people do when they think they aren't being watched.



But anywho, so we bought a car. No big deal, right? Unless you're one of those people who say 'congratulations' when you buy a car as if you've achieved something special other than procuring a mode of transportation, just like everyone else in this gas-guzzling nation has, it really is not a big deal. Oh wait. Also, unless you are one of those people who think that your opinion, A) absolutely must be heard by all, B) matters in the least to anyone other than you or your extremely fugly effeminate husband, and C) you simply lack the gene that allows you to be happy for anyone else when they reap the rewards of their hard work because your a jealous, hating little biz-natch and everyone knows it. Oops, was that out loud?

So maybe you're sitting there with two friends who have riden in the behemoth and are gushing about some of the cooler features. From across the room you hear, 'so you need this huge car for your one kid?' Um...thanks for the admission that despite knowing me for nearly two years, you are so egocentric that you didn't realize I already have one kid and so this one will make two. One plus one does not equal one. I respond to this unfortunate person stating that, "besides a minivan and station wagons (see above paragraph devoted to my hatred of these vehicles), SUV's are the only cars with the third row seating option and we plan on having another child and will have two in car seats and one in a booster so felt this was necessary."

A future MENSA president then commented, 'so you need a row for each kid?' Well no, genius. This I had to explain REALLY SLOWLY as I was acutely aware of the IQ level I was dealing with. "The third row means there are two rows in the back in addition to the front (adult) seats. There aren't three rows of seats in the back like a freaking 14 passenger van you can rent for a spring break trip." Thanks for playing. This is when the two turn to eachother and continue to whisper conspiratorially as if they are not sitting in a roomful of people who just heard that entire conversation and know exactly how immature they're continuing to be at this point.

To these poor souls and anyone else who feels the need to have an opinion on my choice of vehicle, let alone waste their own time forcing this upon unsuspecting listeners, I defer to one of the smartest women alive, Tina Fey. In her acceptance speech for her Golden Globe win for 30 Rock, she responded to some of the 'special critics' with the simple phrase, 'suck it.' (This can be viewed by youtube or googling Tina Fey 'Suck It' golden globe and is HI-larious, as is Tracy Morgan's speech later in the night.) So, there you go. Don't like my car...suck it. Think it's too ostentatious...suck it. Don't know how many kids I have or what a third row of seats really means in a car...really suck it. Because I've been told that sometimes these drag on, we'll end it here. Stay posted for updates following graduation and the first baby shower which should provide entertaining fodder in the weeks to come.

Quit with the countdowns already

You may or may not have noticed that I've been a little pathologic with the countdown's lately. Countdown until I'm done with work: 25 days. Countdown til Ollie arrives: 10w6d...at the latest. Countdown til I start work at my new job: 4 months, 25 days. I don't know when all this counting down business became the overwhelming driving force in my life, but I promise you all that I'm not starting anymore from now on...because I think my husband might leave me if he has to hear about the countdown to the diaper sale at Babies R Us one more time. Or the countdown til Will starts soccer or something else as un-countdown-worthy.

Anywho, it's been a pretty uneventful week in the lives of the Houle fam. The insanely quick weight gain has finally leveled off and we're holding tight at 23-24 lbs which sounds much more acceptable to me at 29wks, not so much at 26 weeks. I may or may not have been consuming enough for someone growing triplets and that may or may not have stopped since the whole 'failed then passed diabetes test debacle' which may or may not be the cause of my less than acceptable waistline expansion.

That and the heat. MN sucks 5 months out of the year, isn't so bad 3 months out of the year and then is the best place in the world the rest of the time...i.e. the summer. Warm weather, not too bad humidity, sunny skies, the cleaner lakes and abundant water sports when you have time to escape to them and aren't too pregnant to enjoy them. All of this would normally inspire you to be in the best bathing suit shape during those months, but even though bathing suit season is out this year, the heat definitely curbs the appetite for little debbie. It does, however, make you secretly hate your friends who sit around enjoying the warm weather with a 'rita or cold brew or glass of champy and your only part of this interaction is to play barmaid and keep everyone topped off with refreshing goodness. It's a good thing I'm craving super cold lemonade all the time.

Which, in case you didn't know this, an 'arnold palmer' is a mix of tea and lemonade (another fav is lemonade and root beer mixed) and is awesome and comes in a very large aluminum can when you purchase it at a golf course. It's the size of can that you would buy beer in if you were going to a pimps & ho's party and planned to drink it out of a paper bag. It's the size of can that, when seen from across the golf course, proves it can not be clearly determined that the 28wks pregnant chick is NOT drinking an actual beer and prompts the pedicatrician who bought the 'round' to come over and inspect. He does not find this funny when the 28wks pregnant chick yells across the 8th tee box, 'Baby Ollie said thanks for the brewski!' This is especially humorous when the golf outing is the all staff golf tourney for the hospital so you're surrounded by tons of other docs who hear this exchange and wonder why the pediatrician is buying the pregnant chick beer. Job security? Don't worry, karma got me back by giving me all kind of ligament and abdominal pain the next day since I haven't really used my golfing muscles (core) in a while. Karma also allowed the other chicks I was golfing with to not only mock, but record with their phones for future facebook torture, my 'pregnant chick golf swing' which involves an Elvis-inspired booty shake in order to get my swing on around my bulbous belly.

A couple of new items for the past couple of weeks have included the non-existence of more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep and visible movement on the belly that eerily resembles when the Alien is trying to eat it's way out of the people in the movie cleaverly titled, Alien. I don't know if it's Ollie trying to condition me to be awake every two hours to be a good little moo-cow or if it's my body saying 'quit sleeping on your back unless you want to harm your baby' that wakes me up every 2 hours or so. I actually got 4 hours in a row last night, but that's the longest stretch in the past 12 days...not that I'm counting. I think it's starting to make me a little crazy, which I think I'm successfully hiding from the man. I'm kind of on hyperalert all the time and have consumed 1-2 sodas per day to help with a little caffeine. Shush people, two is the limit for the preggers. It doesn't help that he's on call this weekend, so when he needed to sleep in a little longer after a long night, I got up with Will and had to entertain all day. Will enjoys my sleep-deprived state and hanging out with a pregnant chick who has introduced him to french fries dipped in ice cream from McD's & Wendys. Even with the tylenol PM, between the dreams of pre-term labor, dreams of my water breaking, restless legs, having to pee despite a dialysis like water restriction, or the feral felines that meow outside the door until we let them in, sleep still evades me. As a former professional sleeper, I feel like I will probably crash soon and sleep for 3-4 days. Hopefully this is before the delivery.

The new movement thing is also pretty creepy. It's lots of fun and even more distracting than the non-visible movement period (thank God I'm almost done with work and anything else requiring concentration...like driving) and other people can actually watch the munchkin flip and kick and push outwards on my belly surface when I'm sitting/standing still. It's creepy when one side of your belly sticks out a good 2 inches further than the other side or pushes out rhythmically when listening to the radio. Yes, he can hear, and yes, he likes pop music. It's pretty cool except when strangers see your belly moving, it takes them a second to realize your pregnant and not fat and then they decide it's totally appropriate to touch the moving parts on your belly...which is only 2-3 inches above your girlie parts...either way. He also tends to quit moving so ridiculously obviously anytime that his dad is sitting next to me which I'm sure is beginning to infuriate daddy-to-be. I'm like, 'oh, look, he's going crazy.' He looks and puts his hand on the belly and it's instant naptime for the munchkin. Oh well, he'll get to play with him in 10wks and 6 days. Damn, the countdown snuck in there again.

Another little helpful piece of advice. Lets pretend you're pregnant and, thus, have tender, enlarging breasts. Lets also pretend that you have a cute little mole on one of those funbags and it's been growing freakishly larger (prompting you to name it Max) secondary to the hormone storm otherwise known as pregnancy. So pretend you ask your husband to cut it off...of your larger, very sensitive, tata. This is not a good idea. Not only did your boobs kind of ache before, but imagine having non-buffered lidocaine infiltrated around the most sensitive part of the girls, that happen to leak a little milky substance while you're being prepped and then having a piece of tissue cut off. FYI, the lidocaine eventually wears off and because your pregnant, in case I didn't mention that, you can't really take any pain medication beyond tylenol to help with your hyper-sensitive, feedbag pain...that you asked for. Just wait. No matter how creepy it looks or if you wonder if the kiddo will be able to determine which is the actual spot to latch when trying to fishy lips on to the goodness. Just wait until you can be properly meidcated post-op. Idiot.

Okay, off to finish the registry with my little shopping assistant (poor Will) and to eventually return home and focus my sleep-deprived hyper energetic state on cleaning the house. Next up on the blogtastic agenda, a new coche is in the works and NO, it is not a minivan and it never will be.

I love you, now go away.

When you're getting bigger seemingly by the hour due to your ever growing little monster, why is it that everyone around you decides this is the perfect time to become as svelte and physically fit as possible? You're still happy for them as they get healthier by the day and you love that this 'baby weight' your putting on is helping you grow a ginormous and healthy little rugrat that will have the best start in life. But...it still sucks that you are fat now. Here is a short list of the people in my life, whom I love dearly big or small and am uber-pumped for their newfound healthy body image...but that I plan on not speaking to again until I fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes so that I don't blurt anything regretfully stupid related to the annoying discrepancy in the direction that our scale numbers are headed. If you have people in your pregnant life who fit into these categories, I strongly suggest a hiatus to preserve your sanity...and your friendship.

1. The svelte blonde who can sympathize with your heartwrenching 'I'm so hungry, but gaining weight sucks' story, only to follow it up with a description how she couldn't fit into anything when she gained 40 lbs...with her twins. You're up 25 lbs at 27 weeks with one baby? Nothing to feel bad about there!

2. The cute little brunette sister who popped out twins and two weeks later you're shopping to find 'something she could possibly fit into,' only to realize that she's trying on jeans that are a size double 00 (her pre-pregnancy size). Why they even make a size double 00 is beyond my comprehension.

3. The forementioned sister with the twins who after her second pregnancy (only one this time...bummer) totally quits working out for like three years and doesn't start up again til she's 'just sick of wearing a 6-8, I mean we're the same size Kourtney,' she says with disgust. Well we couldn't have that, could we? Being my size would probably be the cause of your divorce for heavens sake!

4. The friend who lost like 80 lbs before and after lap band surgery who had fallen off the wagon, but your weight gain and general hobo-type appearance have urged her on and convinced her to beat this plateau and drop another 30lbs or so. I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy, I'm happy you're healthy.

5. The friend who decides to join weight watchers with her man and begins to instantly melt away to half her size AND gets to keep her absolutely humongous boobs. Not only are you bigger now, but you still have smaller boobs...that leak milk.

6. The pal who decided to lose some weight so she hired a trainer at Golds to work with a couple times a week and get a 'head start'...and has lost like 25 lbs. Not the 25 lbs like you don't really notice a difference, but the 25lbs where she looks like a different person. A hot, skinny different person. Unlike you who looks like a fuzzy, melasma covered, fat different person.

7. The husband who continues his satanic ritual otherwise known as waking up BEFORE 6 AM to workout everyday and is smokin' hot and gets your pregnant hormones all pumping despite the near impossible chance of satisfactory loving because you're so caught up in what you look like. Yeah that husband who says, 'I just feel so gross' in reference to his physique. Yep, gross dear. That's exactly what I was thinking...about me, not you hottie.

Do I love these people to death, feel grateful to have them in my life, and continue to be happy for them in their pursuit of a longer, healthier life and applaud their valiant, superhuman effort? Yes. Do I want to talk to or have any of them see me in a bathing suit or, God forbid, nude right now? Not a chance in fatty hell. Just joshing kiddos. Go ahead and keep rubbing the buddha belly and telling me that I look so 'cute' 25lbs heavier and know this: Now that we're all chumming around the same size, I will be stealing all you bitches clothing when I get back to my pre-pregnancy size. When, not if. So go ahead and start shopping. I look fab in blue, brown and fushia-esque pink.

Isn't it ironic? Dontcha think?

So, 'ironic' is one of the most misused terms in the English language. While there are hundreds of types/definitions, the ones I stick with are 'Both coincidental and contradictory in a humorous or poignant and extremely improbable way' and/or 'Contrast or discrepancy between expectation and reality.' So is it ironic that Beethoven lost his hearing? Yes. Is it ironic that the chick who ate nothing but little debbie treats and fast food during the first two trimesters of pregancy would fail her glucose (i.e. gestational diabetes...diabetes that comes on in pregnancy) test? No. In the words of one of my new favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, (http://www.jennsylvania.com/), 'the b@^#* deserved it.'

So, I'm seeing my doctor last Thursday and we're doing all of our pregnancy/doctor stuff, etc. When I said, '14 weeks to go,' she said, 'I don't think so, how about somewhere between 37-38 weeks.' This is creepy but fantastic because I've had the same premonition that this little parasite will be joining us sooner than later given the general lack of room in my abdomen and his exponential growth rate. I know there's no possible way for her to REALLY know that I'll pop early (being a doctor really kills it for you sometimes), but I spent the better part of the day reveling in the fact that my need for instant gratification would be more quickly met than I had previously dreaded and I'd see his angelic little face sooner than later. So, we got our doctor on and we're finished and I'm leaving and she's like, 'while you're here, why don't you just do you sugar and hemoglobin tests?' These seemed like innocent little words and a perfectly acceptable idea. Seemed, being the operative word.

I mozy on over to the lab area and, knowing how I have to wait an hour after I drink the stuff til they can draw my blood (eech), stare impatiently at the chicks til they hand over the goods so we can get this party started. I have to say to all of my patients who have been whining about how awful the sugary drink is and how some have even refused to take it a second time...quit your bitching. It's not that bad. It was really cold, flat lemon-lime soda that went down in about 3 gulps. No more excuses people. Anywho, so I sit there for a shade under a decade, have my blood drawn and head back to work. FYI, it's never a good sign when your doctor's nurse calls you within 45 minutes of your visit to the vampires because the chances of them needing to tell you RIGHT NOW that everything is hunky dory, is slim to none.

She was cute because she's like, 'so your hemoglobin is fine...just a little low, so keep taking your vitamins, blah, blah, blah. But...(unacceptably long pause)your glucose was high. 149 to be exact, so Dr. Schmoopy wants you to get a three hour glucose tolerance test.' Forgetting I'm a physician for a minute, I say, 'I wonder when I have to do that, if it can wait til next week I mean.' She says, 'No. Tomorrow.' (and you can tell she wanted to add, Idiot. You should know this.) And by the way, you have to fast after midnight and don't eat anything but sips of water and don't really move around too much til they finish the FOURTH BLOOD DRAW three hours after you start.' Now, for someone who a)loves to eat more than breathe, b) has an unnatural hatred of having blood drawn, and c) is impatient to the point of psychosis on occasion, this sounds like a death sentence.

I agree to the craziness and hang up the phone only to realize that this means that during the part of the day that I normally consume an average of 2400 calories (otherwise known as the hours between 6 and noon or morning), I can have nothing. I immediatly blame my 20lb weight gain at 26 weeks on the 'diabetes' and start to have nightmares about 12 lb babies trying to be purged from my delicates. That's when I started to cry. I went home to my husband making dinner #1 (on swimming lesson days, Will has dinner before and after) which I cant partake in at all because I'm too worked up with the notion that if I eat a single granule of sugar or unrefined carbs, I'll have nothing but insulin in my future. After inspecting our carb-loaded refrigerator, I ate two pieces of hard salami (yummmmy) and announced I was finished to which my loving husband said, 'no dice, why don't I make you an omelet or something.' I pouted, but agreed and that was it for calories for the evening. Knowing I couldn't eat for the better part of the next day, I'm not really sure why I thought it was a good idea to start a self-imposed fast six hours earlier than necessary. We'll blame it on the hormones.

The smart me would have slept in as long as possible the next morning to skip some hours when I couldn't be eating, but the dumb me wanted to see Will before school, so I got up early and watched everyone else eat pancakes while I sipped my super yummy water. My stomach was already growling when I got to the lab and had the first blood draw and started chugging the nasty orange drink. (this one was way worse...not cold, syrup, cold-medicine aftertaste). I was trying to savor it as this was my only intake for the morning, but the sadist lab tech reminded me 27 times that it was bottoms up in 5 minutes or less or we couldn't do the test. Thanks for your help! I finish it off and let her know that I'll be up on family birthing and I'll be back in an hour for my blood draw. This prompts a pretty stern disapproving face and she says, ' they normally have to wait here until the test is done. I guess since your a doctor...' They wait down here for three hours? Really? Well that sucks, but I'm not so I'll catch you later. This is what I thought, but what I said was, 'I promise I won't exert myself or eat and I'll be back in 58 minutes. Here's my pager,' and I took off before she could argue. Hey, I don't pull the doctor card very often, but I wasn't about to sit there for 3 hours counting the ceiling tiles.

The next three hours were hell. I felt so faint every time I stood up and was nauseated with hunger, especially since everyone with food decided to follow me around, munching as loudly as possible on their vittles. Somehow, I survived until the final draw at 11:15 and hightailed it to the cafeteria. I literally had one foot in the door and one hand on a tray when, what joyous noise did I hear overhead? "Dr. Quick, Family birthing center, room 315." This, children, is an example of irony. Being the resident on OB this month, it was my job to sprint my fat pregnant butt up three flights of stairs, to the other side of the hospital after being about a pint down from all the blood draws and being so starving that I contemplated grabbing food off patient trays as I ran past in the hallway. Got there, baby out, sprint back to the caf. Still worried about my 15 pound baby, I selected some healthy food and began to gorge myself. If you haven't eaten in, now, 18 hours and you finish a full plate of food in 47 seconds, you may or may not immediately need to evacuate said food into the nearest garbage can and then traipse back down to the caf to refuel. If you 'evacuate' while you're in the doctors lounge and eveyone hears it and comes running to 'help' (pet peeve...trying to help when someone is vomiting. If they aren't passed out, you can't be much help, so leave 'em be people...or just continue to stand there staring talking about how gross it is. You're doctors, for heavens sake!), you might be really embarassed and not venture into this previous safehaven for damn near a week.

Anywho, the test came back okay, so no needles and insulin and big, fat babies (fingers-crossed) for me...at least for now. I definitely had to cut back on my sugar intake (we're not counting the tray of brownies and cookies and cream ice cream my hubby made) and have started to try and exercise again. It's weird. You know there's something patological going on when just because it hits 75 and sunny outside, your body says, 'you must run.' Almost 27 weeks pregnant and gave up exercise about...oh, 27 weeks ago? Doesn't matter, my body said run so that's what I did last night. It sucked, but I slept like a baby and I swear that my cankles might be more shapely today so maybe if the weather keeps up, so will I.

18 lbs and counting

So, I have no problems with a girl with a little belly. Whether they're rocking the beer gut or just comfy in their stretched out skin, good for them for being confident in their apple-like shape. The thing is with these women, of whom some are very near and dear to my heart, they did not gain this rotund shape overnight, but it was something they've been working on for years. They've had time to adapt to the changes necessary when you decide to carry a basketball attached to your midsection. However, in pregnancy, you gain this protuberant blessing in a matter of weeks to months and your new addition doesn't come with an instruction guide. So, even when you're only 'a little bigger,' or so your husband tries to convince you, you feel like a full on cow and tard in your own skin. It's like when people are newly walking with a cane or crutches and hit them on everything because they don't relize how wide they are now...only it's your baby...in your fat belly that you ram into everything. The following paragraphs are case in point why it sucks to have a rapidly expanding waistline.

When you have a beautiful bathroom, complete with stand up shower next to your jacuzzi tub, you generally feel lucky. When you're too fat to fit into said shower, you do not feel lucky. A quick romantic shower with your spouse becomes a thing of the past when he offers to join you and you sheepishly hold the door closed mumbling something about being done when you obviously have shampoo in your hair, facewash on your face, a razor in hand and know it's because if you let him in, you'll both be struggling to breath adequately...if the door will close.

This awesome shower also has a 2 ft high little alcove that you used to be able to perch your pretty tootsies on to shave your legs. Used to, because now the concept of raising your ankle remotely near even the bottom of your buddha belly is completely laughable. If you try this, you might fall into the opposite shower wall, which also happens to be the door. This might cause the door to swing wildly open and you to tumble out, nearly hitting your head on the 'quaint' marble deathtrap that used to be your beloved jacuzzi tub. So you give up shaving, which you're husband thinks is totally awesome.

Things are going okay, no more shaving/near death experiences, until one day you reach down to the waiting shampoo on the floor of your teensy enclave only to realize that you have to spread 'em to kind of squat because you can't bend straight over and get it. This not only looks uber-attractive, but now your twice the size ass hits the damn door again, throwing it open and letting all the water splash all over the floor. If you're like some people who maintain a pregnancy blog like this one, you may have a serious pet peeve about water on your bathroom floor and may begin to cry when you realize what you've done, all before getting back in the shower and closing the door. Your husband may find the wading pool of water and knowing your psychotic obsession with water on the floor, not say a word, but just dry it off and go on, in his wet socks, like nothing happened. He may not even ask why all of the toiletries are now on the top two shelves in the shower...except his, which all live on the floor now.

Moving a few feet from the bathroom, your bedroom becomes an area of excitement past once a sizable belly enters the picture. Lets pretend your hubby still finds you attractive and tries to lie on you in order to give you some smoochies or gaze lovingly into your eyes. He now is lying on a cantaloupe that compresses your unborn child into your inferior vena cava until your legs start to ache and you get a little light headed. Not to mention, he now is reminded by this blunt object to the torso, that he has to pee, so needless to say, there end up being no smoochies or gazing for you. You may abandon this position and try to belly-up next to eachother and pretend your fatness doesn't get in the way and your kid isn't kicking him in the bladder through your belly, which can be a little strange. You may try to have him spoon up behind you, only to realize that he can no longer get his arm around you, your ass is double it's previous grandeur and is now almost a hazard to his health should he get lost in its enormity, and to top it all off, your kid HATES this position and lets you know it...non-stop...until you move...away from his father. No smoochies, nada.

'Oh, you're so lucky you're in medicine because you can just wear scrubs when you get pregnant.' This sounds awesome, right? Not when you realize that you are growing at such an exponential rate that you have to upgrade sizes before the third trimester even comes calling, they still suck because you have to tie them below your belly...which compresses your bladder...and makes you have to pee 10 times an hour instead of 8, and whether you tuck in the top or not, it finds its way loose to ride up and show off your streched out bulbous belly at the least opportune times. Like when a creepy guy patient is asking if your pregnant in a way that tells you, a) he knows damn well your pregnant, b) he's really 'in to' pregnant chicks in a super skeezy way that makes your stomach turn. Yep, I sure am lucky.

My most favorite, thus far, is one I have yet to learn from and am a serious repeat offender. Remember those days when you were slender and getting behind the wheel of a car was no big deal because you could have fit a small child in between you and the wheel...not that you would...right Britney? Now, you do have a small child between you and the wheel, but you tend to forget that ALL THE TIME. You think you can still reach into the backseat or the passenger to grab something, but your belly hits the wheel. You think you can pull your purse from the passenger, into your lap, then rotate and get out of the vehicle. This causes you to become tightly wedged into your seat until you physically move the seat backwards so you can actually disembark. You would think that it would only take one episode of this careless wedging of your child tightly to your Dooney, but no. That's not how I roll. Still happens at least every few days and now I like to spice it up and be holding a cup of tea or soda (I'm a pregnancy sinner) or talking on the phone which allows me to douse myself in my beverage of choice or my phone to keep moving once I become fixed and make its way onto the parking lot post haste. This makes my sprint service even more sublime than usual, let me tell you.

Enough with the whining about becoming a butter ball. I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like 18 lbs and everything's been going pretty swimmingly. If the last 15 1/2 weeks are this easy, I'm up for 10 more of the little buggers. To end on a jovial note, for those of you not acquainted with a breast pump, I highly suggest it. While functional, these little devices can be super duper entertaining too. Pretend you have a bestie who you lovingly call 'the moo-cow' who has to pump all the time, especially over lunch. You kind of get used to the ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh that can lull you into a nice little postprandial nappy.

It's also super fun when you find yourself at the outlet mall over lunchtime and she needs to use a car pump...oh yeah, they exist. ( How many times has someone been moo-cowing it up in the car next you and you never even suspected? I bet you start looking now.) Anyway. Pretend you park facing a little lake with little, cute duckies and she starts the extraction process. Pretend that everything is not exactly in place and the super strong pumping device makes a really loud slurping/sucking noise against her bosom that sounds just like a really loud duck quacking. Apparently this particular 'really loud duck quacking' noise is a signal to all the ducks that can hear it quite well through your open sunroof and windows and they start to aggressively approach the car with looks in their little ducky eyes that are in a way slightly amorous, but also somewhat murderous. You may or may not be prompted to haul ass outta there and move your car to a duck free location should this happen again. You may also choose to never let your friend forget this moment and forever immortalize it by writing about it in your blog that everyone at work reads prompting her to label you and your big ass mouth her ex-bestie. Pretend that happened and it'd make for a pretty good story. Until you remembered that one day soon you're going to be the one hooked up to the milking machine. You'd still smile, though.

But he's moving in there!

Those of you with small children present, any men who are related to me, and anyone with delicate sensibilities should not read on. This entry is about having the sex...or not...during pregnancy and I had to get some graphic issues off my plate. You've been warned.


So, there are certain things during pregnancy that they don't warn you about...not even in med school. I may have mentioned before that there comes a time in pregnancy when you want nothing to do with your spouse romantically, but this is quickly recouped and you can't keep your hormonal hands off him. What they don't tell you...John and Dad, I wasn't kidding...you should quit reading here...is that this is somewhat of a double edged sword.



While you've been growing this healthy, little monster, he's been ever present in your day with all his crazy movements that just seem to become more and more frequent as the days pass by. The 'duh' moment comes when you realize that just because you're exhausted and need to get started on your nightly 10 hours of shut-eye, that doesn't mean he's got the same game plan. This holds true for other times when you might not want to be so aware of his movements...say when you're thinking about giving your hubby a smoochie with the hopes that it'll lead to more. The parasite says 'hold on here, I thought you were gonna eat some ice cream. You're not? Well, I'll kick and punch and practice front flips until you quit doing whatever's causing all that ruckus and get back on track with the eating.' Needless to say, if he decides to throw this little temper tantrum in the middle of the horizontal tango, the moment is officially ruined for you. Simultaneously with your evaporation of desire, you then feel it's a good idea to udder a sentence like, 'aw, dude. It's so weird when you're thrusting and he's kicking,' and then there's no longer anything to thrust. Talk about a cock block...almost literally. So you find yourself in this catch-22 where you WANT to make some beautiful music and your husband KNOWS you want to, but it just not happening because this one pound, eleven inch long creature will be the inevitable uninvited wet blanket who will make it a pretty short-lived party.

If the constant dance team practice in your stomach wasn't enough, there are other reasons why this is a ridiculously sexually frustrating period of life. You don't want it, then you want it, then you have to have it, but you can't actually get it, and then you're so big, you're afraid you're sweetie will get lost in the enormity that is your 'delicates.' The other big issue here, pun intended, is that there are parts of you that change during pregnancy. The hips get a little wider, there's a little more padding in the trunk and on your pubic bone and the inside bits have some minor alterations as the uterus grows as well. This is a boring translation for 'stuff doesn't live where it used to so the things that used to get you there before don't always work anymore.' This sucks. Maybe this isn't common, but when it didn't used to be that hard to get to the fireworks and fanfare and now no single position/activity is bringing it home for you, you start to go a little crazy. And every time he flaunts the fact that, 'nope, no problem for me. I'll just finish up here,' you start to go a little batshit crazy. Then you start to avoid any encounter that may lead to anything remotely intimate, because even though you'd cut off your left pinky toe for some satisfaction, you know it aint happening, so you run the other direction in hopes that he'll forget that he's in the mood too. You find yourself starting to say silly things like, 'oh no, you go ahead and take care of that dear,' and hope he has enough left in the fantasy reel to get you through the next few months with minimal participation. I'm not trying to be a bad wife here or advocate initiating a 10-month lock down on the goods, but come on. You can't give me enough hormones to make me crazier than a horny fifteen year old boy and then not give me a way to find some release. That's just not cool.

Now, all my pregnant friends laugh when I tell this story and tell me to get over it because no one expects you to be a porn star while gestating. I giggle because they're all laughing for different reasons. One tells me that she and her husband bumped uglies approximately 2.5 times during the entire pregnancy and you don't even want to know what the .5 part pathetically consisted of. Another tells me that she, sadly, had three orgasms during pregnancy despite their nearly weekly encounters. 3/40 is not an average I'm swinging for. Yet another tells me that her husband had zero interest as soon as he found out his progeny was seeded in her womb and she actually had more sexual encounters (solo and on the D.L.) during pregnancy than any other time in her life. Another, whom I don't believe one bit, says they used to have sex once a month or so, so skipping out on the 'chore' for nearly a year of preggers wasn't that big a deal. I didn't ask what her husbands thoughts on the topic were...or what his boyfriends name is. Just kidding.

Now, I'm not going to say that it never happens or that with slight adjustment here and there...okay alot of research, practice and adjustment, you can't find something that resembles a middle ground and you can resume some amorous activity with some success. It just seems like with all the getting fat, breaking out, emotional outbursts, and libido on crack, that those of us in the knocked up club could use a little break and maybe this was one time in our lives that this particular activity would be easier and more satisfying. You would think that would be a good idea or some kind of payback for all the crap we go through while being in the family way, but what you would think...more correctly, what I think...seldomly turns out to be the way things really are. Oh well, here's to 18 more weeks of bliss?

20w6days pics

Okay so these two are his little face with the one below showing his arms/hands up next to his head.

The one above is half his head (right) and (from left) his hand, forearm, elbow, upper arm and shoudler.

The one below is his body and left leg.

The one above is his beautimous little profile. I just want to nibble his nose already.

The one below didn't show up the best but is the sole of his foot. Ahhhh, so cute.

Flipping out...literally

So, this will be a short because the little man in my tummy (that would sound odd in any other circumstance...kind of makes you picture a creepy leprechaun) is wreaking havoc on my thought process today. It all started a couple of weeks ago when he first started to move around and I'd get the occasional flutter or 'gas bubble' feeling everyone tells you about. Word to the wise, if you don't know what gas feels like at age 30 and you can't figure out the difference between your baby and your intestinal by-product, we should chat. I digress, so his movements finally become noticable and then, like everything else he does, he kicks it into supernova for me. It wasn't that bad at first, just a jab here and a head roll there that would make me giggle and daydream about the little bugger. I started feeling this weird rolling sensation and had to ultrasound simultaneously (of course) to prove that yes, he's in there doing front flips and side rolls. It's the most palpable when he's doing the front flip and, as if he heard my silent prayers that this move be banned from inter-utero play, this has become his chosen manuever every two to three minutes or so...all day long. I thought babies were like cats and slept anywhere from 18-22 hours per day, but who am I kidding, all my spawn will be special.

This incessant gymnastics practice wouldn't be an issue if his incubator didn't have the initial attention span of a two month old cockerspaniel, but with all this increased activity, his hyperactive tush can stop me mid-sentence like a sighting of a half-dressed RPattz. Most of the time I can cover and figure out what I was talking about and get back on track. I would not be telling the truth if I said that I haven't had to ask a patient 'what was that you just said?' a few times, but only once, 'what were you saying?' Not 'what were you saying' because I didn't hear you, but 'what were you saying' so you can jog my memory as to the topic we were even discussing before I departed for baby lala land. Having baby on the brain has only brought me close to asking a man how the breastfeeding was going once...so far.

As much as I can cover with my patients, my friends and family know me too well. Apparently when you're already used to me behaving as if I have untreated ADHD and it gets significantly worse, it's your duty to point this out and laugh at every possible instance. I have literally stopped in mid-conversation to gaze away/out the window/basically anywhere that could give the signal 'I couldn't give a rats what your saying' which people tend to notice, take personally, and then the pointing and laughing begin. I mean come on. Pregnancy brain only works when you're cute and pregnant. Not in that in between stage when you just look like you've been sneaking daily trips to McDonalds and the bakery for the past few months. All I can say is hopefully it doesn't get worse over the next 20 weeks. Or at least hopefully my BMI will increase to the point where people feel sorry for me and no one likes to call a fat girl dumb or flighty. It's like kicking a three legged dog. Just not cool.

Hypno-whosiwhats

We'll start this blog with a cute, but dorky funny story courtesy of the big brother to be. So, remember back in the day when I was whining about restless legs at night and had to start taking some medicine? Well, the other night, Will comes out of his room, while we're totally engrossed in Idol (as engrossed as you can be this season) and says, "I'm having a bad night, mama. I just can't go to sleep. My body just won't stop going." Knowing that the little rascal hates going to bed and will come out of his room at least a couple of times a night with one excuse or another to make sure we aren't having fun without him, we sent him back to bed and continued vegging on the couch, adding to our BMI's. The next night, he comes out again and says, 'I'm having another bad night. I just can't go to sleep. My legs just want to keep moving all night (he's been in his room 3 minutes). I think I might need some IRONING pills."

Light bulb moment. This is hilarious to us because he's been feigning restless legs and heard me talking about the iron pills I was taking to combat it and decided to see if this could get him out of bedtime. After Will's request, we, of course, put him back to bed sans ironing pills, but it wasn't a matter of minutes before the hubby mentioned that someone else might benefit from ironing pills, given the fact that I couldn't really tell you what our ironing board looks like or how to turn on the iron. It's not my fault I don't believe in high maintenence clothes and won't purchase anything that may need to be ironed or dry-cleaned...ever.



Anywho, so one of my pals (who has birthed two nordic giants sans epidural) gave me a book on hypnobirthing, which I've been making my way through. I know, I know, it sounds a little anti-medicine, but I'm open to at least learning about other ways of doing things even if I don't plan to employ them. So, I'm reading this book and not all of it is total nutjob preaching, which is surprising and enlightening. They play a lot of captain obvious, telling you how chicks in third world countries who are pregnant feel themselves go into labor, find a nice sturdy wall, lean against it while crouching down and deliver their own baby and go own about their travels. Does this happen? Dunno, but it kind of makes sense. Would you want to be the next person to lean against that wall while waiting for the bus? Nope. Puke. Yes, the magic of epidurals and modern medicine is lacking from this story, but you can't dispute the fact that it sounds a lot more tolerable than the cinema-made-famous scene of the screaming, crazy spaz crowning in a modern birthing suite screaming 'you did this to me' at her schmo of an inseminator.



My plan has always been to head to the hospital for my epidural when I was, oh, a half centimeter dilated. Now, I'm wondering if I couldn't hold off a bit. They talk alot about fear being the root of the pain and the perception of the impending pain causing a lot of reactions that do indeed lead to the sensation of pain. All of this, physiologically makes sense, but then why does everyone in this country think that labor should be and is psychotically painful? There's a lot of massage and relaxation techniques taught in the book which every person, pregnant or not, could benefit from. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all Gisele on you and climb into a tub, sneeze out my baby and claim I never needed maternity clothes. I, after all, am not a Victoria's Secret model. I am, however, going to try to remind myself that it might not hurt and that I might not need an epidural and that chicks do this all the time, so why should it be more difficult for me than them. Hopefully, this thinking gets me to at least 3 cm before I squeeze my hubby's livelihood hard enough to have him calling for my epidural.



Another book, more like a collection of really short essays, I been thumbing through is Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs, or something like that. I'm a little dismayed by anything she does since the whole autism and vaccinations thing, but I gave it a shot. It's funny in parts, which isn't surprising, given her generally fun and crazy personality...at least what I've seen on TV. Unfortunately, the 'chapters' are on average 4-5 pages long and don't really get into whats going on besides, 'Yep, I have discharge and it's a lot and it's gross.' She's made a ton of dough on this book and I kind of am in awe her publicist for that one. I need to get that man's name.

So, on the bean front, we have our 20 wk ultrasound in the next week or so and it's on the kickass high def machine so we'll have some new sweet pics to post of his highness. We're painting the nursery green this weekend and grabbing some furniture in the next couple of weeks, I'm planning. He's still as ADD as ever and moves non-stop, especially at night, which hopefully is not a trend he plans to continue once he vacates the belly. John has been able to feel it through the belly once by mashing so hard I'm not sure if he's feeling my heartbeat through my aorta or the little man practicing his freekicks. (just kidding) I quit having heart-attack-inducing cravings but have gained about 8-10 lbs so far which is a little much for this early, but whatev. Once I proclaimed that I didn't care what happened to my body as long as my baby got everything it needed to be healthy, my body was listening and responded 'you betcha, sucker' and started piling on the pounds quicker than Kirstie Ally. It's actually getting to the point where I'm full after only eating a kidsize serving so I'm either going to quit gaining weight eventually or start developing some killer stretch marks because my belly is as taut as all get out and not in the 'situation' kind of way.

To end on a funny, I'm sitting in clinic the other day, chatting up a 75 year old sweet old lady patient of mine. It went like this:

Her: So, you're married, have a new name and are having a baby. Do you know what it is?
Me: Yeah, it's a boy.
Her: Do you have a name picked out?
Me: Yeah, but I'm not telling anyone any more because I'm sick of people's inability to hide their hatred of my babies future handle.
Her: Well as long as you don't name it ______.
Me: Virginia, why would you say that? Did you talk to my nurses?
Her: No. My husbands, nieces, sister had a boy and named it _______ and all I could think was 'don't you love your child?'
Me: Virginia, I'm naming my kid ________.
Her: (turns to me) Don't you love your kid? There are plenty of good baby names out there, why don't you look some more.
Me: Virginia, that's what I'm naming him. It's interesting, just like your name. I love the name Virginia.
Her: Of course you do because you don't have the name Virginia. I hate my name. Why don't you find a _________ and ask him if he likes his name. Good luck with that.
Me: Virginia, I can't believe you said that.
Her: Well, no one said anything to my parents so I have to stick up for all the kids who are sure to get their ass whooped and it's all their parents fault.

I only ad-libbed a little and the rest of this came from a sweet little old bag who's one of my best patients. I can't wait to be old and be able to say whatever I want and everyone just says, 'she's so old and sweet and funny.' Needless to say, I'm not naming my future daughter Vagina...I mean Virginia.

What was that?

So, I first thought that I felt the baby move a couple of weeks ago, but wasn't quite sure. Today, which continuing my Big Brother act on my growing spawn, I simultaneously watched him kick off one side of my uterus and hit his head on the other side. I say simultaneous not for the movement but for the fact that I distinctly felt two flutters at the same time. I actually stopped ultrasounding to look at my belly (as if my xray vision would suddenly start working and I'd see him without the aid of technology) and had my little light bulb moment. It was sweet. Now that I'm sure that that particular sensation is the munchkin playing bouncy house in my belly, I'll be even more acutely aware of his darling self. Now I won't have to ultrasound so much to prove his existence, which I'm sure he'll appreciate since he tends to pout and throw a little hissy when we've done it too often.

You'll notice I said 'him' or 'he' as my pronoun of choice above and I'm 99.9% sure that this is an accurate description. We've never gotten a completely clear view of a definite dangly, but the evidence we have would stand up in court. Time to start decorating his room! Speaking of decorations, I've kind of taken some flack for my choices of yellow, green and brown. When you think of those colors, don't think of the hideous shades that flatter no one and are generic enough to use when you don't know the sex of your little monster. Think of a rich green, a pale yellow and a complementary soft brown. Not every pole-toting infant needs to be head to toe blue to prove to the world he's got his own balls to play with. I'm like the Pat-esque colors and am using them to decorate in somewhat of a safari meets winnie the pooh idea I've been tossing around. You don't have to understand it people, you just have to accept it.

Another thing I'm sure of is that this kid is definitely already taking after mom. When I eat something he doesn't like, he throws a fit. When I'm in the wrong position, he throws a fit. When I wear pants that are not elastic, he throws a fit. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but when you watch your child throw a fit on ultrasound, as witnessed by a besty who mocks said childs being just like mom, you can imagine the same type of behavior at other junctions. He actually gets both arms going up and down, pretty quickly, and then starts to bounce off either side of his not-so-roomy- anymore water balloon house. Today, he actually turned his head to the side and brought one of his hands up to rest on his forehead as if to say, 'Wooes me. What shall I do?' It was kind of funny. He'll fit right in with Will who has adopted various parts of my dysfunctional personality as his own. He provided us with our most hilarious form of entertainment on vacation (hard to compete with Shamu) when we went to Cocoa and Daytona beach. It's barely 60 and sometimes sunny and this kid is the ONLY PERSON in his swimtrunks running into the iceberg supportive water and back out and up and down the beach all which laughing and screaming, the kind where everyone looks and wonders A)is someone drowning/being stabbed, and B)who is the crazy person laughing the kind of laugh that you just know they have the crazy googly eyes too while it's going on. The fact that he was the victim and the perpetrator in this audible fairytale and watching him run laps in the sand was H-I-larious.

Oh, and about elastic waistlines...they rock. I think that I might want to be pregnant for the rest of my life. Not wearing your fat pants and eat a big lunch? If you're not wearing pants with an elastic band, this sucks. If you are, you don't have a care in the world and go back for thirds. Although I've only gained 5-6 lbs, it's all right in my belly, which now pooches out and rises nearly to the level of my belly button. I have some bella bands which allow you to wear your old pants and just not fasten them correctly, but I think I might ditch them...too much work. The plain ole' yoga pants that are loose fitting and flared leg that can be worn with a long top and no one gets close enough to touch them and realize they're like cotton sweatpants are my new favorite bottoms of choice. These and scrubs will allow me to drastically increase my oral intake and, thus, scale results, I have no doubt. My other favorite clothes are pregnancy shirts, fyi. They are all low cut to show off the new assets and they're all tight under the girls and super loose over the belly so once again, you can eat whatever you want. It's like the dance scene in Twilight where Bella motions to Jessica that her girls look good in her dress. Every day at lunch, another friend mentions how the girls are looking stellar in that shirt and I have to explain that apparently a man with a side job at playboy designs pregnancy shirts so that the world can take full advantage of the esthetically pleasing view that is the pregnant body.

Anywho, I'm not feeling sick anymore, just tired. But, we did just get back from vacation(in FL...in the first week in March...read 'cold') and I've been working on our hospital service and had a sinus infection so that would account for that. Vacation by the way is way more fun when you're not pregnant. A babymoon should be pre-baby in your belly. There's no staying out late, having a cocktail, doing crazy stuff like bungee jumping, etc. Oh, and if you're at Disney, Universal or Sea World, you can't ride any of the rides so your sole job is to shop and eat and be on picture duty. Now that I think about it, maybe that wasnt such a bad deal.

Restless Legs and a Smother-in-Law: Which is worse?

So, one of my least favorite things to deal with in clinic is something called restless leg syndrome. Sometimes, it's as easy as a person being iron deficient so you replace that and Wham!, problem solved. However, sometimes this is not the cause and all we can do is try a few different medicines to try and give people relief from this pesky little problem. Sometimes they work, sometimes it's part of a bigger problem, sometimes you never find something for this person who thinks you should be able to solve every single problem they come to you with and now hates your not-problem-solving ass.

'Pesky little problem' is what I thought it was until I started to be afflicted with this uber-annoying, nothing worse than wanting to sleep all the time, but you can't because you're legs feel like you just power-lifted a volvo issue. I tell you people, this sucks. You're snuggling your honey, trying to drift off to wicked crazy pregnant dream land and you just keep tossing and turning and can't get comfortable because your legs keep twitching and no matter which side you lie on, the other one starts to act up. You wake up after a fitful whole 4 cumulative hours of sleep and apologize to your bedmate for the perceived disturbance only to have him inform you that he's had the best three nights of sleep ever. It's like he's stealing your sleep mojo and the worse you get, the more soundly he sleeps. This may or may not breed some resentment and he might start to back slowly away from you when you start to make the crazy, sleep deprived googly eyes at him. To battle this, I picked up some iron pills and pop one each night. It works pretty well, but keeping with the idea that nothing is without side effects and lots of people start one medicine only to have to take another to deal with the firsts side effects, lets just say that the GI side effects of taking iron ( or opiate pain medicines)...sucks. But at least I can sleep.

Onto the more interesting discussion of late. So, all the names in this little tale have been changed because my girlfriend who told me about this crazy phenomenon, reads this blog along with her mother, smother in law, and sister. To bring this issue to light to these blissfully unknowing women would create a family disturbance something the size of World War 8. So I'm chatting on the phone with my pal and she asks what kind of birth plan we have, yada, yada, yada. She gets around to asking who will be there for the delivery and to help with Will and the baby after we get home. We haven't really talked too much about it or made any decisions but really I was planning to have John and I and maybe my mom there for the delivery, but nothing firm. Also, my mom is planning to come up from StL for 3-4 weeks after delivery to help out and I imagine my MIL will be around every now and again as they only live an hour away.

At this point, she took a deep breath and then launched into a 42 minute tirade on what happened with the delivery of her first of three little bundles of joy. Basically a hateful grandma competition the likes of that has never been seen unraveled right before her eyes. Who got to hold the baby first? Who's side is the baby named after? Who's child does it look like more? Who will be babysitting more? Who gives a rip? Apparently, grandmas do. She did not talk to the Gmas beforehand or discuss a plan (i.e. lay down the law)...and they all paid for it. I was not aware of this type of insta-crazy that afflicts soon to be grandma's but have asked around at work and it would seem that in about half the cases, this rang true. How did I not know about this? And FYI, don't giggle at how silly it sounds when talking to a mom who's had to endure this. Not really funny-haha for them to relive it and have you mock the questionable existence.

Apparently, it got so bad with the nanas that they began to refer to the other as the 'smother-in-law' to their respective child and caused quite the unharmonious half year surrounding what should have been the happiest time in those future parents lives. One would let herself into the kitchen and cook up a ton of food to be 'helpful' despite the fact that no one wanted to eat any of what she cooked and now they had to go grocery shopping to replenish the food stores. (I do have to say that this is a huge pet peeve of my GFs. When's the last time you went into another woman's kitchen and just took it upon yourself to make a meal without being asked? She probably wanted to kick you in the head) The other would take the liberty of opening and reading the couples mail to 'save them time' and would dispose of the 'junk mail' (i.e. it's illegal to remove anyone elses mail from the mail box, open it, read it, remove it from the trash to read it, whatever...illegal...read jail time.) This was combatted by the first by her doing all the laundry in the house and personally deciding to 'weed through' and help get rid of all the 'old' or 'too small' or 'unacceptable' clothes (of mom, dad, and baby) and ship them off to the salvation army prompting the exhausted parents to now need to leave the house for a shopping trip...something all new parents wish they had to do. All this done under the guise of 'helping.' All because the parents didn't have a talk with these chicks beforehand. All this BS that caused the new parents to contemplate moving far, far away from anyone sharing any DNA with their new spawn and prompting a name change.

So, the question is this. How often does this really happen? Are we at risk since our parents are not first time grandparents and seem to be with it the majority of the time? Should we have a little sit down with them or would that plant the seed of psycho? I just don't know and didn't think I even had to worry about this, so for now I'm thinking about sweeping it under the rug and seeing what happens. But will I come home to find that rug has been disposed of and replaced with a more baby-friendly or acceptable version by one of the 'helping' nanas?