Prodigy

I've had three months with my little Bumblebee.  Three months already...how does the time go by so quickly?  And I have discovered something amazing:  my Baby Bee is a prodigy.  And also the happiest baby alive (as long as you are paying attention to her).  And, incidentally, they go together.

A few days after my little Bee was born, people started telling me she had smiled at them while they were holding her.  Okay, first.  Babies don't smile when they're only a few days old.  They just don't.  If you try to tell me otherwise, I will mentally roll my eyes at you while saying, "Oh, how sweet!"  And second.  If my baby smiled, which, by the way, she didn't, then why didn't she smile at me?  Her mommy.  The one who suffered through thirty hours of increasingly painful, okay-just-go-ahead-and-kill-me-NOW labor to bring her into this world (not to mention all the little aches and pains during the months before labor) - didn't I deserve that first smile?

Although, really, it was a non-issue.  Because the smiles didn't happen.  I mean, less than a week old.  Come on.  Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

When she was five days old, we had to go back to the hospital so she could have some follow-up bloodwork done (usually done before you leave the hospital, but we left early, so we had to go back).  There was this absolutely awful soap opera-style drama on the television in the waiting room - think "Dr. Drake Ramoray" on the pseudo-Days Of Our Lives from Friends - and we spent the first five minutes in the room transfixed, amazed that something so awful could be on television, and wondering which actor's living room they were using for the set.

There's five minutes of my life I'll never get back.

I finally got bored with the inanity, and noticed my bee-bee girl was looking up at me.  I smiled at her, and started to sing, Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are...

And then it happened.  My five-day-old baby smiled at me.  Looking right at me.  While I sang.  No sleeping, no gas.  Fully alert and smiling.

I punched Craig in the shoulder to dislodge his brain from the mire that was on the TV, then sang again. The wheels on the bus go round and round...  She smiled again.  It was true!  It really happened!

"Look, look!  She just smiled at me!" I told the lady sitting across from us. 

She looked, and said, "Oh, what a beautiful baby!  How old is she?"

"Five days - she was just born on Monday.  And she just smiled at me!"  I replied (and repeated), excited.

"Aww, she did?  How sweet!"  she cooed, while (I am certain) thinking, I bet it was gas.

A lab tech called us back.  "She's so pretty, and so alert!" she observed while leading us to the Baby Torture Chamber, otherwise known as the lab room where they do heel pricks.

"Yes, and she just smiled at me!"

"She's adorable." And I bet she has gas. "Put her down right here."

"Look, look.  I'll get her to smile.  'The wheels on the bus go round and round...'"  (No smile, of course.  OF COURSE.)

"Okay.  Oh, she's very sweet.  But, here - let me just --" And then the time for smiling was over.

But I know she did, because she kept doing it.  It wasn't an isolated event...she smiled at least once a day in response to a song, or a smile, or a "Bee-bee Bee-bee Boo!"  But I didn't have the chance to document it until she was three weeks old:

Yup.  There it is.  And if you tell me that's gas, then I'll pull your leg.

In Trouble

One thing that we all know as parents:  sooner or later, our child is going to tell on us.  They're going to get to that "repeat everything they hear at the worst possible time" age when we're not paying attention, and before we know it, they're saying the "s-word" in front of our mother-in-law whose swearing vocabulary includes things like "oh, foot," and then protesting, "But Mommy says it all the time!" when they're told it's not a nice thing to say.

(I did that to my mom when I was little.  And I can still see my grandmother standing at her kitching sink, saying, "Oh, foot!")

(I guess, technically, I just did it again.  Sorry, Mom.)

But do you expect, as grandparents, for your grandchild to tell on you?  I'm not sure, because I'm not a grandparent (and hopefully won't be for a loooooooooong time), but I didn't.

However, the other morning, after Craig gave the kids breakfast, the Imp started throwing one of his tantrums when his pumpkin muffin ran out.  Now, if he'd just asked for another one, I think he'd have gotten it, but instead, he started screaming as soon as the last bite was gone.  Daddy, of course, then refused him another muffin, which escalated the tantrum.  Then things got really bad.  The Birdie started making fun of his screaming, which made him a fount of tiny toddler fury. 

Daddy:  "Don't make fun of him.  That isn't nice."

Birdie:  "Grandma does."

Hee hee.  Glad to know it's not just us parents who are at risk.

Learning By Example

Do as I say, not as I do - sometimes I feel like that is my motto.  I don't always set the best example for my kids, as much as I want to.

Particularly when it comes to keeping my house clean.

But you probably already knew that, right?

Right.

In our house, things that aren't used very often tend to stay where they land until we go on a cleaning spree...or until we decide it's some sort of safety hazard and move it.  Case in point:  when my husband got a replacement mirror for my car, the box in which it came sat on the third step coming up into our living room for a long time.  Like, weeks.  At least.

Another example:  a marker fell down the steps.  It sat there for a while.  I'm not sure how long, because after a while, you just don't tend to notice the clutter, at least not until it starts jumping out from behind corners and yelling BOO!

The other day, Craig was bringing the Imp into the house.  I was standing at the top of the steps watching them come in.  The Imp spotted the little marker and picked it up.  "Oh - what a good boy!" I called down to him.  "Thank you for bringing that up!"

The Imp, of course, completely ignored me.  He looked at the marker, then looked around.  Then he spotted the box.  He looked back and forth - marker, box.  And then - plop.  Marker in the box.  He beamed at me, then climbed on up the steps.

Maybe he's seen us shoving things into the closet one too many times.

5 Question Friday With Mama M. (7/29)

It's time for Five Question Friday with Mama M. at My Little Life!  Fun questions this week!  Not that they ever aren't, but I particularly enjoyed a few of these.  Hope everyone had a great week!

1. Did you have a favorite blanket or toy as a kid? If so, do you still have it?

I still sleep with a Shamu stuffed animal that I've had for longer than I can remember.  Shamu wasn't always my favorite (although he was always among my favorites), but he's stuck with me for the longest.  My favorite was a tiny yellow stuffed...puppy, I think, but I was convinced and adamant that it was a kitten...that I called "Meringue," for whatever reason.  Meringue actually belonged to my mom, though, and eventually passed back into her stuffed animal collection.  Meringue now resides happily on the stuffed animal shelf in my parents' computer room.

2. Do you dream in color?

Honestly, I don't know.  My dreams are so hard for me to remember that even if I could remember what they were about, I couldn't tell you whether or not they were in color.

3. How tall are you? Do you wish you were shorter or taller?

I'm between 5'5" and 5'6".  I think it's a good height, and only wish I were taller when I'm sitting in a car and the seat belt is slicing across my neck (why don't they make those for people of average height?) or when someone is calculating my BMI.

4. If you could have anyone's (celeb or other) voice as the guide on your GPS, who would it be?

Hmm.  There are several I'd choose, but each would probably eventually get annoying, so I'd need to be able to rotate through.  The first one that comes to mind is Sean Connery.

5. Do you return your shopping cart to the corral or leave it wherever in the parking lot?

Oh my gosh.  This is SUCH a pet peeve of mine.  I always take it back to the corral...seriously, how hard is it???  Although I'll admit that I'm a little more understanding of the fact that it is harder for some people, like those with multiple small children, than it is for most people.  So if you have a few little toddlers hanging onto you and there are no spaces near a shopping cart corral, and you have to leave it in the space - okay, I can sympathize.  But if you don't have little kids and you just don't feel like making the walk to take it back - seriously?  That is really inconsiderate...not only of the people whose cars are going to get scratched by them, or the people who can't park in that space because the cart rolled a few feet and now it's blocked, but also the poor employees who are going to have to trudge all over the parking lot, rounding up stray carts.  Come on.  Have some consideration of others, please?

Breastfeeding, Take Three

I know I still need to post a birth story.  It's coming, but I'm still working on processing everything mentally.  Until then, I'm going to post some post-birth stories.  I'm going to start with my experience with breastfeeding this time, because it wasn't what I was expecting.

Not much has been, really.  And I'm getting to the point where I think that's okay, but, as I said, I'm still processing.

I had many high expectations of what would come out of having a natural childbirth.  One of these was an easier time with breastfeeding than I had with the other two.  Not that I a particularly difficult time with either of them, but I figured after an unmedicated delivery, it would be even better.

First, there would be no medications in my system to keep me from being able to nurse right away, as happened with the Birdie's birth.  I wasn't able to nurse her until several hours later, after the medications wore off.

Second, there wouldn't be any medications in my Bumblebee's system, thus making her more alert than babies born during medicated deliveries.  She was very alert right away.  But, then again, so were the Birdie and the Imp.

Third, waiting for her to come on her own (instead of being induced) might - I speculated - help my milk come in faster.

Fourth, having natural oxytocin in my system instead of synthetic oxytocin might also help my milk come in faster.

But guess what?  There was one factor I didn't consider, and it was probably the most important one with relation to breastfeeding:  hydration.  It's quite possible that the things I listed above would have made my breastfeeding experience better...if I had kept myself hydrated.  But I didn't.  It never even occurred to me that I needed to.  After all, it was never that big of a deal with my other two.  Oh, I knew it was important, but I never went out of my way to make sure I stayed hydrated, and I had plenty of milk for both of them.

But guess what else I had with them:  IV hydration during labor.  Something I didn't want and didn't have during my labor with the Bumblebee.  I was pretty dehydrated afterwards, and I didn't do anything to take care of it.

And it made a big difference.  Huge.  So big that, for a couple of days, I didn't think I was going to be able to breastfeed my Bumblebee long-term.


Everything started off well.  Immediately after delivery, although I was pretty shell-shocked from what I'd just gone through, I was able to nurse my Bumblebee for about an hour and a half.  I was never pressured to hurry things up.  They let me stay there and nurse her until she was finished.

She was 7 lbs, 8.5 oz. when she was born.

She nursed well in the hospital, although it wasn't as frequently as it should have been.  I'd planned to have her room in with me the whole time, but I was exhausted that first night, so I asked them to take her to the nursery for a while.  They brought her to me when she seemed hungry, which meant she went for some fairly long stretches in between feedings - becaues newborns are sleepy like that.  I should have been feeding her every two hours, and I knew that, but I hadn't slept in more than 48 hours and I didn't have the willpower to choose nursing her over snatching a few hours of rest.

They weighed her that night around midnight, and she was 7 lbs, 5.3 oz.  We left that day, the 20th, so that was her discharge weight.

On the afternoon of the 21st, we went to the pediatrician for her first weight check.  Most breastfeeding moms are familiar with the horror of the weight check.  After a mostly sleepless night spent trying to figure out what in the world you can do to placate your newborn who will only sleep if you are holding her, which of course you are told you absolutely must not do, you stagger in to the pediatrician's office, only to have them tell you your baby has lost too much weight, or is on track to losing too much weight, and (if they are supportive) inform you that you and your baby are sleeping too much (What?  Seriously?) and that you should be waking up every two hours to feed her (if they aren't supportive, they start talking right away about supplementing with formula).

So, we had our first weight check.  Since this is our third baby, we really weren't too worried about it, especially since everything went really smoothly with the Imp.  He only lost about 7 oz. total - about 7% (the "danger cutoff" is 10%) - before he started gaining.  During our weight checks with the Birdie, Craig and I developed a bit of a tradition.  We'd choose a weight, and then we'd bet on whether she'd be over or under it.  Loser had to buy at Starbucks after the appointment.  So, on the way to the appointment, we joked about it, and settled on 7 lbs even.  If she was 7 or more, Craig won; if she was under 7 lbs, I won.

Except, of course, if she was under 7 lbs, I was really losing.  After all, the Imp never dropped below 6 lbs, and the Bumblebee was a pound heavier than he was - so I didn't really expect her to drop below 7.  Even though that's what I bet on, 'cause I'm pessimistic like that.

And, as it turned out, the pessimist in me won.  6 lbs, 14.2 oz.  Then, to make me feel even better about it, they had me nurse her in the exam room, then they weighed her again to see how much she gained with a feeding.  The result after I fed her?  6 lbs, 14.1 oz.  All right!  I actually must have sucked some milk back out of her!  Great job, Mommy!

Of course, the pediatrician's lactation consultant was ever-so-encouraging.  "If she drops below 6 lbs 12 oz, we'll be concerned, but I don't expect that to happen.  This is your third baby;  I'll bet your milk comes in in the next 24 hours."

Oh, yes.  I'll bet it does.  Just like, "This is your third baby.  I'll bet your labor goes fast."  And, "This is your third baby.  You're already at 6 cm - she'll be here in no time."  Also, "This is your third baby.  I'll bet she slides right out with you barely even having to push."

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  We'll get to that part in another post.

Back to the milk - have you guessed it?  Nope, as a matter of fact, it didn't come in "within the next 24 hours."  7/22 (Day 3), weight: 6 lbs, 13 oz.  Only one ounce lost away from, "Danger, danger, supplement NOW!"  As before, I nursed her, they weighed her again - and she was still 6 lbs, 13 oz.  I started to panic.  Someone remarked, "At least she didn't lose any [after being nursed]."  Ohhh, yes.  Thanks ever so much for that.  I started to cry.

7/23 - we went to the hospital for the weight check because we had some routine tests that needed to be run since we left the hospital early.  This time, we received a little bit of hope:  6 lbs, 14 oz.  I nursed her, and it actually went up - 6 lbs, 14.7 oz!  Not much of a gain, but I'd just nursed her shortly before we weighed her, so she'd already mostly drained me.  So this was somewhat encouraging, but the pessimist within reminded me that Craig and I are pretty sure that the scale at the pediatrician's office is not reliable - we think it's consistently low, so it was possible that 14 oz. on the hospital scale would still be 13 oz. on the pediatrician's scale.  However, it was enough to get us out of the weight check cycle.

7/25 - I'd been feeling pretty encouraged, but overnight, I accidentally went for about 5 hours without feeding her.  I should have been ready to explode, right?  Nope.  I barely felt full after that.  So I knew things were still not where they needed to be.  Completely discouraged, that evening, I spoke on the phone with my doula, who agreed that things didn't sound right and suggested I spend a few days of strictly nursing every two hours (or more often) and otherwise keeping the Bumblebee skin-to-skin with me and doing nothing else.  She also helped me realize I hadn't been drinking enough water to make up for the fact that I hadn't had IV hydration during delivery, so I was very dehydrated, which was probably the main reason my milk was being so stubborn about coming in.

Unfortunately, the timing of me needing to focus 100% on the Bee coincided with my mom going back home for a few days (she had been with us since the day before the Bumblebee was born);  fortunately, I have an amazingly supportive husband who never once questioned or argued about my need to do this, and took on either caring alone for our two small children or arranging for someone to help him out with them.  I was able to settle on the downstairs couch with my Bumblebee and three travel mugs that I kept full of water on Sunday evening and stay there or in bed with her constantly until Tuesday evening, with only a few breaks.

And guess what?  It seems to have worked.  On Wednesday morning (7/28, 9 days old) I had to take her to the pediatrician for an unrelated issue, but of course they weighed her.  I went in, half-fearful and half-hopeful.  This time, the hopeful side won out.  Weight:  7 lbs, 4.2 oz. - a gain of 6 oz since her last weight check, 5 days earlier.  Since the average rate of weight gain for a breastfed baby is 1 to 1.5 oz. a day, that was enough to let me know we were on the right track, finally.

What a relief.

We have a little over 4 oz. to go to get her back to her birth weight, so I expect she'll hit it by Monday, if not sooner.  Her next visit is on Monday (two weeks!  Wow!) so we'll find out then whether we made it or not.

Regardless, I've learned a very important lesson for next time, if I decide to have another natural birth:  drink way more water than I think I need, because my tendency is to not drink enough.  I guess this should be obvious, but since I was probably over-hydrated after my first two babies' births, it didn't matter nearly as much whether I drank enough during those early days (which, of course, I didn't, but as I said, it didn't matter).

So, now I know.  That's one item to go in the "Lessons Learned" list.

One of many.  Very, very many.  I'll get to those other ones soon.

Welcome Bumblebee!

Welcome to our Baby Bumblebee!

Born July 19, 2010 at 2:26 p.m.

7 lbs. 8.5 oz.

21 inches long

And, look!  She has hair!

5 Question Friday with Mama M. (7/9)

It's time for 5 Question Friday with Mama M.  I can't think of much else to write, so I'm going to be exceptionally boring and leave it at that.

1. What is one food you could eat everyday?

Every day...that's...a lot.  Hmm.  Well.  Would it be wrong to say it depends on the day?  I guess so....  Well...most days I could eat sushi.  I imagine it would get old after a while, though.

2. Are you working in the career you thought you would be when you were 18?

I didn't even know this career existed when I was 18.  Or when I was 28, for that matter.

3. What is something that you wish you would have done when you were younger and you didn't?

Travel more.  Especially while I was in Europe.  I definitely didn't take advantage of my options then.  And now I have kids and a house and...kids...so travel - especially international travel - is pretty limited.

I guess there's always retirement...I hope....

4. What color are your kitchen walls?

Uh.  Is it awful that I have to think about this?  Umm...red and white.  We actually have wallpaper up...a French theme, lots of black and white with splashes of red.  Maybe I'll post a picture of it sometime.  It's really pretty cute.

5. Do you remember what your very first favorite song was?

When I was in Kindergarten or 1st grade, I loved Ronnie Milsap.  You probably don't even know who he is.  He is (or was?) a country singer....  I don't even like country music anymore, but when I was really little, I loved it, or at least his music.  I guess "Smokey Mountain Rain" was my first favorite song (other, I guess, than children's songs, and I can't remember what one of THOSE was my favorite).

---------

Edited to add a picture with the kitchen wallpaper in the background.  It's hard to see, and I'll take a close-up picture tomorrow, but you can sort of see it in here.

5 Question Friday with Mama M. (7/2)

It's time for Five Question Friday with Mama M.!  If you're interested in joining, pop over to her page and copy the questions, then provide your own answers - then make sure you link up to her at the bottom of her post!

1. What is one thing you miss the most about childhood?

I am going to take my friend Jaime's answer for this one and say NOT HAVING ANY WORRIES!  Yes, I know, it's not really fair to steal someone else's answer, but I have thought this for years.  So that doesn't really count as stealing, right?  But, really, what did you worry about when you were a kid?  (And I mean a little kid, because being a pre-teen and teen is a whole different ball game, and I wouldn't go back there for FIVE MINUTES even if you gave me a million bucks.

Okay, wait.  Maybe five minutes.  For $1,000,000.  'Cause we could really use that.)

Speaking of "we could really use that," see?  That's one of those "worries" that I didn't have as a kid.  No bills to pay, no job to get out of bed for, and no mirrors coming off of your car where this tiny little white piece of plastic breaks and the mechanic says it'll cost $400 to repair because of course the whole mirror has to be replaced for that tiny little piece of plastic even though it's just a little piece of plastic can't you just FIX IT??

Whew.  Sorry.  Fortunately there is such a thing as the internet now, and Craig was able to buy a replacement mirror for $80, instead, complete with the paint to make it mocha sand pimp-daddy beige or whatever fancy name they made up for the color of my car.  Really, it's gold.

When you were a kid, you just didn't know what might happen.  You weren't aware of all of the things that could happen to you if you walked along the rock wall at the top of the street, so you went ahead and did it when Mom wasn't looking.  There weren't scary people behind every tree in the woods behind your house, just waiting to snatch you up.  Well, maybe there were, but, again, that was Mom's problem to worry about, not yours!

Yep.  I miss being like that.  (And, worse for my kids, I remember being like that...so I know the tricks!  I do!)

2. Are you still friends with your friends from high school?

All of them?  No, of course not.  Some of them?  Yes, very much so.  Thanks to Facebook, I'm in touch with many more of them, too.  It's nice.

3. Is there a catch phrase, cliche, or word that just drives you bonkers every time you hear it?

Um, yeah.  "I could care less."  Because it means the exact opposite of what people intend to say when they say it.  If you could care less, then you do care.

It's "I couldn't care less," people.  PLEASE.

4. What is one thing that you think symbolizes America...besides "Old Glory"?

Umm...Sam the - I mean, the Bald Eagle?  Right?  Freedom and all?

Which, now that I think about it...why do we use an endangered species to symbolize America and Freedom?  (Or is it still endangered?  Please forgive my ignorance....)

Still, they are a breathtakingly beautiful animal, aren't they?

5. What are your 4th of July weekend plans?

Well, don't throw anything at me, but I'm planning to brave the raging throngs of hormonal teenage girls to go see Eclipse with my mom tomorrow, if my Baby Bee will let me.  Hey, I enjoyed those books, thankyouverymuch, even if I do think the whole "phenomenon" thing is utterly ridiculous (Lord of the Rings, yes; Star Wars, yes; but not Twilight, sorry).
 
Sunday, we'll probably do something...go to someone's house...but if there are already plans, I don't know anything about them.  However, there are fireworks in our neighborhood (or a neighboring neighborhood, but close enough), and we went to them last year and the kids loved them, so we'll at least be doing that again, I think.

Domino Effect

I got a pleasant "surprise" yesterday evening.  Usually, I forget until the last moment that Craig is going to be gone somewhere the next day and I'm going to have the kids to myself for the evening.  Last night, though, I had the opposite happen - he reminded me that he was going to a family reunion for his dad's side of the family, and that he was planning on taking the kids.  And that he assumed I wouldn't be going, because of the heat and the whole 37-weeks-pregnant thing.

He was right.

So I got an unexpected afternoon to myself!  An afternoon that I planned to spend doing the best thing possible...absolutely nothing!  Perfect!

This morning, my friend Nedda, who is going to be my doula and birth photographer, stopped by to discuss my birth plan.  She mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start sitting on an exercise ball from time to time.  I thought that sounded smart, so I filed it away in the back of my head to do "later."  Whenever "later" happened to come around.

Craig and the kids left around 11:00, and Nedda left a little after that.  I had the house to myself.  Time to relax.

It started out well.  I fixed myself a big plate of leftover Indian food and got my DVD of Evita, something I hadn't watched in years.  I settled in on the couch and immersed myself in the cacophonous intro of my favorite musical-made-into-a-movie.*

* Not my favorite musical, but the best movie adaptation of a musical that I've seen,** at least that I can recall right now.

** Admittedly, I've never seen it on stage before, although I have listened to the soundtrack*** all the way through many, many times.

*** While Antonio Banderas does an excellent job and has a much better accent,**** I prefer Mandy Patinkin singing the role of Che.  Feel free to think I'm weird, but it is what it is.

**** Despite Mandy's perfectly good accent in his portrayal of my favorite character from my favorite movie of all time.  "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya.  You killed my father.  Prepare to die."


Now, where was I?

I had eaten my lunch and watched about half of the movie when the thought that I should be sitting on the birthing ball started worming its way into my mind, making me feel guilty for being kicked back and sunk into the pillows on my couch.  I decided if I could find it, it might actually feel good to sit up on the ball for a while instead of laid back on the couch, which tends to put some stress on my lower back unless I stuff a pillow behind it.

And that was the first Domino.  You know, the one that when you just barely touch it, it falls and starts all of the others cascading down the row, until either you reach the end of the line or one of them falls the wrong way.

I paused the movie, which, coincidentally, was right at the point where it would have been going to intermission if I'd been watching it on stage, and started digging in our closet to find the ball.  I found it fairly easily, found the air pump, and blew it up.  The ball was...dirty.  Covered in...crud...where I guess it had just sat around for months and months without being used before my husband finally deflated it and put it in the closet.

I cleaned it off, but quickly realized that all the cat hair and bits of, well, crud on the living room floor would just make it a mess again.  So, out came the vacuum.

That was my first mistake.

I vacuumed the rug, and then - since I had it out, and plugged in, I went ahead and vacuumed the hardwood floor and the couch and loveseat.

But, again, since I was already running it, why not go ahead and vacuum the kitchen, too, since the kitchen is basically an extension of the living room?

And while I was at it, I figured I should clean the chairs under the toddlers' booster seats, because something about hers had made the Birdie say, "Ewwwwww" this morning and almost refuse to get in her seat for breakfast, and oh my gosh how did they get that gross?  Wow.

And, you know, since I have the vacuum out, I probably ought to vacuum the kids' rooms, too. Right?  Those, and Craig's icky man bathroom, because, well, they needed it, and that way I'd covered the whole top floor.

The kids' rooms were my second mistake.

Because you can't vacuum a room that has toys all over the floor.  And, hello, toddlers' rooms?  They always have toys all over the floor.

So I had to pick up all of the toys in the Birdie's room, which was surprisingly few, really, and I vacuumed that.  At some point, a crayon got sucked in, but I wasn't going to dig through the nasty vacuum bag for a crayon.  I do have my limits.

And then to the Imp's room...which was a bit of a different story.  There were toys all over the place, thanks to the toy bin being in his room.  I randomly threw a multitude of small toys into the bins, then found that toys were the least of my problems in there.

I stuffed an empty diaper box under the bed, because that's what you do with empty boxes, right? then emptied a full box into the diaper/pajamas drawer in the Imp's changing table/clothes chest, and stuffed that empty box under the bed, too.  Of course, I had to organize his pajamas to make room for the diapers, which involved a fair bit of rearranging, sorting, and putting away things that just didn't belong in that drawer.

I returned to the toys in his room, and found the Cracker Barrel golf tee game (you know those, right?) that we got the Birdie a few months back.  It "lives" on top of the pantry cabinet in our kitchen, so I took it in there - only to find that the top of the cabinet was so cluttered that there was no where to put the toy.

Third mistake, right?

I took everything off of it, put away the things that were easy to figure out (like some crayons and a few coloring books), and reorganized everything else so there was at least a lot of free space on top of it.  Enough for the golf tee game, anyway.

I finished putting away the toys and vacuumed the Imp's room.  Finally...I was able to put away the vacuum.

Then I noticed (haha, as if I'd ever not noticed it) the collection of things that was accumulating behind our couch:  a tricycle, a box of old pots and pans that we are planning, someday, to donate, a pink tee for the Birdie's t-ball set, and the bag we'd used to take the four extra toddler outfits (plus pajamas) to my parents' house yesterday (because if you take them, you won't need them, but if you don't take them, the potty-trained Birdie will pee her pants twice and the Imp will have at least one poopy diaper explosion, guaranteed).

I emptied the clothes out of the bag and put all the outfits away, then threw the bag into the Birdie's closet (it's getting scary in there - I think the next person to open one of those doors is going to get an avalanche).

Then...I left everything else behind the couch.  Because, as I said before, I have my limits.  And finally, finally...I was finished.

And that is how a ten-minute task can turn into an hour-and-a-half's worth of work.  In case you were wondering.

Fortunately, I had just enough time to finish the rest of my movie, bouncing happily away on my exercise ball, before Craig and the kids got home.

So I guess it was a good afternoon, since I got to relax and I got a pretty good amount of work accomplished.

Even if I had no intention of getting anything done when the day started.

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A note.  After proofreading, I realize someone is going to immediately think "Nesting" when they read this.  Believe it or not, it's not nesting.  It's just how I am.  It's the reason I never clean - because once I start, I can't stand to stop until it's all done.  I'm trying to work on that, because, as you can imagine, the result is that I never get anything done since there is never ever enough time to do everything at once.

5 Question Friday With Mama M. (6/25)

I'm going to take about 5 minutes to participate in Mama M.'s Five Question Friday.  The questions are pretty easy ones for me today, so it shouldn't take me long.  Yay for five minutes at lunchtime!  :)

1. Do you know how to play a musical instrument?
Yes.  In elementary school, I learned how to play the trumpet, and played that off and on through my sophomore year of college.  My sophomore year of high school, I started playing the mellophone and french horn, and also played that off and on through my second year of college.

I was a band geek.  And I loved it.

2. What is your pet peeve while driving?
Only one?  Wow.  Actually, that one is a hard one for me...to choose only one.  See, I am not a patient driver.  Probably because I'm so often running late, I don't have the time to be patient.  Not, of course, that it makes a difference at all to get impatient about it...but I still do, anyway.

Let's see...

• Situation #1:  People who sit in the passing lane right beside a vehicle in the other lane, so you're stuck behind them BOTH.  Often, one or both of the offending vehicles is a semi.
• Situation #2:  Semi drivers who think, for whatever reason they can pass that other semi that's going slowly just as they get on a hill.  Inevitably, Situation #1 occurs.
• Situation #3:  People who ignore the speed limit and sit in front of you at 5 or 10 mph below it while you're trying to get to work, on a 2-lane road.
• Situation #4:  Conversely, people who ignore the speed limit and tailgate you even though you're already going 5-10 mph over.  Can't you tell that I'm pregnant?  Or have small children in the car with me?  Or both?  GET OFF OF ME!
• Situation #5:  People who don't use turn signals.  Really, people, how hard is it?  It's RIGHT THERE BESIDE YOUR LEFT HAND.  Use it!
• Situation #6:  Finally, those people who rush through a stop sign  JUST SO they can turn out in front of me in my neighborhood, and then have to go straight at the light that exits it.  Don't you see me sitting behind you, stuck waiting, with no traffic coming, but unable to turn right on red because you just had to pull out in front of me?  What is WRONG with you?

Wow.  I think I could go on, but I should probably stop here, before I make myself look even worse.

3. Would you rather have a housekeeper or unlimited spa services?
My initial inclination is the spa services, but I probably wouldn't have enough time for that.  If the housekeeper would have dinner ready when I got home from work, too, then I think s/he gets my vote.

4. Is there a song that you hear that will take you back to the moment, like a junior high or high school dance?
Quite possibly, but this question just took me instead to a "my-life-just-flashed-before-my-eyes" style flashback of all of the junior high/high school dances I ever attended, and now I can't think of anything else.  Unfortunately.

5. What song best represents your life right now?
Is there a song about losing all ability to focus on anything or make any kind of decision because you can't put two cohesive thoughts together?  If so, then that's it.

The One-Inning Scream

The Imp has started screaming at bedtime again, or shortly thereafter.

The good news is that he's not holding out for thirty minutes of rocking with Mommy.

The bad news is that he is, instead, holding out for an inning of baseball (watched) with Daddy.

On the bright side, at least an inning doesn't last a whole thirty minutes.

Does it?

Requests From a Mommy Who's Ready to Pop

In a similar vein to my post the other day regarding pregnancy and hot summers, I thought I would share with you a few personal pregnancy pet peeves, just because.  And if you have done this/said this to me, don't sweat it.  Chances are pretty good it didn't bother me that much unless you were the third person in the span of a week to do it (see item #1)...and then, that's not really your fault.  Even if it does bug me at the time.

So, in no particular order....

• Do not comment on my size.  Just don't.  If you remark on how big I've gotten, I feel like a cow.  If you remark on how small I am, I worry that my baby isn't growing properly and oh my gosh there must be something wrong, after all, it happened to my best friend's sister's cousin, so it's surely going to happen to me, too!  The only appropriate comment regarding a pregnant woman's appearance is, "You look great!"

• If you have told me something in the past, and I ask you about it again, please do not point out that you already told me, or if you must point it out, please do so gently.  My brain doesn't work the way it's supposed to right now, and adding in, "I told you this last week when you asked me about it," just makes me feel stupid.

• If I comment that something hurts, please don't ignore that I've said it.  While it may seem redundant to you, it is at the forefront of my thoughts 90% of the day.  "I'm sorry," is good enough, but please act like you care.  Believe it or not, it does make me feel better to have my discomfort acknowledged.  If I didn't want to actually talk about it, I wouldn't have brought it up.

• If you are a prominent maternity clothing store, do not sell me clothing that is guaranteed to shrink if I launder it according to the instructions on the tag.  Seriously?  Have you not NOTICED that your main clients are pregnant women?

• If you are a salesperson in said maternity clothing store, do not try to convince me that laundering the clothing according to the tag will not cause it to shrink.  This is my third baby.  I have been buying clothing from your store for longer than you have been in the workforce.  I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!

• Please don't be condescending or discouraging about my decision to labor without pain medications.  I know it won't get me any gold medals.  If I wanted a gold medal, I'd train to be in the Olympics.  I just want to go through labor without any unnecessary wires, tubes, pokes, or cuts and without putting unneeded medications into my and (therefore) my baby's body.

• If I'm headed to the bathroom, * please don't get in my way or stop me to talk as I pass your office/cubicle/desk.  Since every movement hurts these days, chances are pretty good that I've waited until the last possible moment, and now I am about to pop.  Please wait until I come back through, and then I'll be happy to have a conversation with you.  Especially if you offer me a comfortable place to sit.  Or chocolate.  And if it's both, I may never leave again.

* If you are wondering how to recognize that I am heading to the bathroom, recall that every step is painful for me, so if I'm up and walking, it's bound to be for a good reason.  If there is a bathroom in the direction I am headed, assume that that's my destination.  After all, I am pregnant, which means there is a 4-lb baby sitting on my bladder and using it as a punching bag.  Trust me, I am headed for the bathroom.

If, by chance, you have done one of the things on this list, or you think I might be pointedly referring to you, I'm not.  Trust me.  (Unless you are a prominent maternity clothing store.  Then, yes, I do probably mean you.)  Some of these are even hypothetical and haven't actually happened.  But if you did do this, and it bothered me, just remember, everything bothers me these days.  It probably took me about five minutes to get over it, anyway.

5 Question Friday With Mama M. (6/18)

I've decided to do my first "5 Question Friday," hosted by Mama M. since I've been following her blog for a while, but I've never tried it.


1. What is your favorite thing about summertime?

Summer break - Oh no wait, I don't get one of those.  90-degree weather and sweltering humidity - Um, no.  I think that goes without saying.   Especially these days.  Swimming - Maybe if it didn't involve me stuffing my pasty white body into a swimsuit and going out in public.  Maybe.  Wearing shorts - Refer back to the pasty whiteness of my body.

Um.  Maybe I'll come back to this one.

I will say that I do like warm weather.  I much prefer warm weather to cold weather.  I can't stand cold weather.  But please note the emphasis on the word warm.  I am not a huge fan of hot.  Or humid.  Unless there are a beach and an ocean involved.  Then, all bets are off, and I'll gladly showcase my pasty whiteness for all to see (at least until I turn red and crispy.  Sigh).

2. What is your ideal retirement location (if money didn't matter)?

Sanibel Island, Florida.  If I could get my husband to move there with me.  Which I probably couldn't.

At least, I'd want to be there about 8 months out of the year (see Q#1).  For those pesky hot months...I'm not sure.  I guess I'd let my husband choose for those.

3. Do you live in the same town you grew up in?

Nope, I moved about an hour and a half away so I could get a job.  The town where I grew up is beautiful, and it's in a lovely area of the country, but unless you're growing horses, going into business for yourself, or working in retail, there aren't a whole lot of options.  Some, but not many.  As I don't have the money to buy horses (as much as I'd like to) and I am neither self-motivated (am I allowed to admit that?) nor great at selling stuff to people, none of those options is a brilliant one for me.

4. What nervous habit did you have as a child that you kicked to the curb before becoming an adult?

Ahh.  This is a tad bit embarrassing to admit, but I will, anyway.  When I was a kid, I bounced.  That's what I called it.  Bouncing.  Whenever I was in the car (and I would have to sit in the back seat for this), I would, essentially, rock as if I were in a rocking chair.  The seat back was just springy enough that it would *bounce* me back as if I were on a trampoline (except not nearly as fast or as violently, that wouldn't have been pretty).  Obviously, this habit got kicked to the curb a bit earlier than adulthood - really, once I started riding with people other than my parents on a regular basis.  I couldn't do it in anyone else's car, of course.

To this day, though, I still love me a good swing or rocking chair.

5. What is the most embarrassing thing that happened to you while on the job?

I have thought about this all day and haven't been able to come up with something.  Probably one of the many presentations I had to do over the first five years of my job.  I'm horrible at presentations.  Just horrible.  I get up in front of a group and I freeze.  Even if I have notes.  I'm so glad I'm no longer in a job that requires presentations!

Risky Business

As I entered our neighborhood today, something unusual caught my attention.

Something that has made me do a double-take (and almost given me a heart attack) before.

A man was mowing his yard.  Not unusual, you think?  Normally, no, it wouldn't be.  However, there was something different about his lawn mower.  He was using an electric mower.

Again, doesn't seem all that odd at first.  Except when you stop to think of the reason I could tell, from my car, as I was driving down the street, that his mower was electric.

It was plugged in.  With a long orange extension cord.  Which he would lift up and pull out of the way with each sweep of the mower across his yard.

Now, I don't know about you, but that seems pretty risky to me.  How hard would it be for that mower, in a moment of inattention from the homeowner, to cut across the power cord with an awful bzzzzzt! sound?

It makes me wonder...what is he thinking?

No, scratch that.  Because he's a man, and I do not in any way mean this disparagingly, but there is more than one man out there who would only see the usefulness and efficiency of this method, and remain blissfully oblivious to the risks.  No, the real question is -

What is his WIFE thinking?  Because where a man looks at a lawn mower with a power cord and thinks, "What a good idea!  I'll save money - gasoline is so expensive these days - AND save myself trips to the gas station," whereas a woman looks at the lawn mower with a power cord and all she can hear is bzzzt!  bzzzt!  BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT!

But...maybe he's not married.

Or maybe he won't listen to reason.

Or maybe he has some sort of safety system set up.  Maybe...maybe it's safer than it looks to my untrained and unknowing eye?

I'll just close my eyes and hope it's the latter.

Maybe "They" Were Right

If you've ever been pregnant, you know who "they" are.  "They" are those people with two eyes that work, a mouth that works, and a brain that doesn't.

Or, at least, their brains never quite seem to work when they're around a pregnant woman.

I'm talking about the ones who find out you're pregnant "again" and can't help questioning whether you really know how that happens.

The ones who take one look at you and ask you if you're sure it's not twins, even though you're well past the point where someone would have noticed if it were.

The ones who feel the need to point out that it's two days past your due date and you're still pregnant.

The ones who have to let you know how glad they are they're not you when they find out you're due somewhere between July and September, because you're going to be so miserable being pregnant in the hottest part of the summer.

(These same people, incidentally, also always seem to feel the need to say, "Well, at least you won't be really big during the hottest part of the summer," if you're due at any other time of the year.)

With the first, I just smile and nod.  Yes, we will have three children 3.5 and younger.  Yes, we know how that happens.  In fact, we meant for it to happen that way.  Yes, we might very well be insane.  But we're happy, too, so it works out in the end.  And if it doesn't, well, that's going to be my problem, isn't it?

I haven't had to deal with #2 and #3.  (In fact, I've gotten the opposite of #2, which just makes me feel a little like I might not be eating enough for my baby to grow properly.  Thanks.  Like I wasn't already neurotic.)  For item #3, I was induced before my due date with both of my (sweet) little toddler terrors, so I never had to deal with going past.  (For reasons mentioned in this post, I might be dealing with it this time, though.)

With #4, I, again, smile and nod, although I tend to roll my eyes a bit.  I mean, come on.  Hot is hot.  If it's hot out, I'm going to be miserable, regardless of whether or not I'm pregnant.  Being pregnant isn't going to make it worse.

Right?  Of course.

But...then again.

It has been hot lately.  We're talking 90+ degree weather and 70+ percent humidity.  Miserable no matter how you look at it...but.  I've noticed a few things.

For one, if I spend about five minutes out in the sun, I become useless.  My temper frays, I sweat all over, my brain starts to overheat, and somewhere, a "check engine" light comes on.

For another, by the end of the day, my feet resemble the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man as they try to ooze out of the tops of my shoes.  It is neither pretty nor pleasant.  For anyone.

And finally, I've actually found myself wanting to wear dresses and sandals.  Dresses and sandals.  Me.  (Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder where I went.  And then I realize The Belly was just in my way, and I was right there behind it all along.)

So I've been wondering...were they right?  Is it really harder to deal with the heat and humidity when you're massively pregnant?  Or is it just that I can't handle much of anything right now that doesn't involve air conditioning, a cushy couch, and an ottoman?

I've been firmly convinced for so long that it doesn't matter whether you're pregnant or not, hot is hot and miserable is miserable, that it's difficult for me to even entertain the idea that it actually might make a difference.  But...I'm really starting to think that it does.

Does this mean I have to eat crow? (*)

If so, I'd better wait until after the Bumblebee is born, since it's probably on the list of Foods To Avoid During Pregnancy.  Or if it's not, it should be.

* Please excuse the wikipedia link, but I wanted to put that there since it's a fairly obscure saying now, and I didn't want anyone to think I was actually considering eating a crow.  That's just gross.

Pool Fool

I had planned on posting tonight about my daughter's t-ball experience.  Her last game was this evening, and I took a few pictures and had a few ideas started up.  But it was hot, it stormed in the middle of it, and basically, it was a fairly miserable experience for me (fortunately, not for anyone else, but I'm going to be self-absorbed and call it NO FUN AT ALL, at least right now).  I'm sure I'll feel better about it tomorrow and I can write about it then, but tonight I'm still feeling a little bitter at the elements, so I'm going to save my sanity and pretend it didn't happen.

So, instead, I'll post about my husband.  At his request.

Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.

And I'm all too happy to comply.

Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion:  that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit.  Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.

Note to self:  at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea.  They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong.  But I digress.

I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready.  After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess!  Ooh, Princess!  Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit!  Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.

A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading:  although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made.  And I don't mean "very little" progress.  I mean NO progress.  The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.

And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono.  Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim.   Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool.  Please please please!

I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.

I'd have a disappointed three-year-old.  And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.

"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.

He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled.  "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."

I thought, "I KNOW WHY!  IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT!  A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"

But I didn't say that.  Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all.  Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out.  But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.

So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what.  And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird.  It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."

...the other side.

Blink.

Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.

Blink.  Blink.

Oh yes.  The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool.  And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.

Snicker.

Snicker snicker.

Umm...I think we found our problem.

I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.

At least, not any unauthorized holes.

Bitty tantrum avoided.  At least for a little while.

A Lesson in Privacy With Toddlers Around

Since last night's post was fairly serious, tonight I'll give you something that requires a little less thought.

(Well, on your part, at least.  Obviously, what I wrote last night didn't use a whole lot of my own effort beyond spewing out what I've been thinking about for the past 5+ weeks without much cohesion or attempt to be entertaining.  I guess that is what happens when you blog while you're supposed to be sleeping.  Which is what I'm doing right now, too, come to think of it.  I really need to get my priorities in order.)

(And in another aside, why the heck didn't they put a "Delete" key on the Macbook?  I mean, there is a "Delete" key, but it's not a real "Delete" key, it's the backspace.  I want a forward delete.  WHERE IS IT??  Can anyone tell me?)

Let's move on to my story.

Any of us who are parents are aware of how privacy works when you have kids:  as soon as they are mobile enough to get into the bathroom/bedroom/hall closet, your privacy becomes one of those things you sit and dream about during those brief moments when you can manage to tune out the yelling and running and general wildness going on around you.

That is to say, it no longer exists.

I will confess, though, that I am one of the lucky ones, at least in this respect.  I have a job, which means I am usually up, showered, and out of the house before my kids are awake.  I get to shower without little hands pulling back the shower curtain, little eyes peeking in, little mouths grinning at me, little voices laughing at how funny Mommy looks.  It's bliss, and I am well aware of how good I have it.

On Saturday, Daddy took the Birdie out of the house before I'd had a chance to shower, and I was left alone with the Imp.  Normally I would just sit around until Daddy got home and shower then, but I decided to be proactive and get it out of the way early.  I turned on the TV, left the bathroom door open, and got started.

Almost right away, I heard the distinctive thut-thut-thut-thut-thut of footsteps that accompanies the Imp wherever he goes.  The curtain pulled back at the corner, and he stopped, looked, and giggled.  Then he turned and ran off - thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.

Less than a minute later, thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.  Rustle, rustle.  Curtain opens.  Giggle.  Curtain closes.  thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.

This went on for the entire shower.  He was very cute with his grins and giggles, but really, after a few times, I kept hoping he'd find a toy or the TV and stop looking in at me.  I know well enough I look funny right now without the why-do-you-look-so-weird-Mommy? stares coming at me every thirty seconds.

Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.  Rustle, rustle.  Curtain opens.

And then I smelled something.  Actually, it wasn't quite that sudden - I'd noticed it at the beginning of the shower, and I'd thought, "Ew, gross, what did Craig leave in his shower?"  After a few giggle trips, though, I realized the smell was coming and going with the Imp.

Aha.  "Well, the shower's going anyway.  May as well clean the kiddo while I'm at it."  So I reached down for him and grabbed his little shoulders.  To my surprise and chagrin, he cried out and started to whine and shake pathetically.

Me:  Don't you want to take a shower?

Him:  (wailing and shaking his head emphatically) Noooooooooo.

Well, okay.  It scared him.  But...too bad.  It was going to be much easier on Mommy's aching back to not have to bend over the tub, so I decided the shower was the way to go.  He'd get used to the idea once he got in the water.

He wriggled a little, and I put him back on his feet so I could get a better grip and start undressing him.  Before I could stop him, he slipped away and took off.  Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.

Me:  Come back here!

Him: ...

Me:  You little Imp!  Come here!

Him:  ...!!!

I called for him several times, but he knew what I had planned, and he wanted no part of it.  As much as he loves taking a bath, for some reason, when the water is coming out of the sky, it terrifies him.

And even though I did have to lean over the tub to get him clean, I may have learned something far more valuable:  the secret to privacy in the shower when the kids are around.

It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.

The Imp and I played with the Photo Booth application tonight.

Fun times.

Au Naturel

I haven't posted about the Baby Bee in a while (or about anything, for that matter, but that's beside the point), so while I sit here waiting and dreading a couple of approaching thunderstorms, I'll see if I can organize my thoughts enough to say a few things.

First, about the baby.  Not much to say there...everything is normal, as far as anyone can tell.  I am just past 35 weeks, so only a little bit longer to go.  (For those who aren't used to counting pregnancies in weeks, I'm expecting her to be born between 39 and 41 weeks, so I have another 4-6 weeks to go.)

An aside.  Does anyone else still think of six weeks as a "grading period?"  A throwback to elementary school days.  We got our report cards every six weeks, and to this day, when I think of six weeks, I think of it as a "grading period."

But really, it's about a month-and-a-half, so that's what I've been telling people who ask me how much longer I have.

After doing quite a bit of research, I've decided I would like to have an unmedicated delivery.

What?  Really?  Me?

Yup.

Anyone who knows me will know that this is a surprise.  I've never been much of one for pain, and I've always been of the "if there's a good way to avoid it, then why the heck not?" mindset.

So how did I come to this startling decision?

It started out with a single motive:  to reduce my risk of a c-section.  No, I have never had one, and odds are, I'm a pretty good candidate for not having one in a future delivery.  But, every labor is different, and realistically speaking, it could still happen.  Since we are planning to have another little bundle within the next two years or so, God willing, a c-section with this one most likely would mean a repeat c-section with my fourth.

And scheduled c-sections don't make good stories.

At least, you hope they don't.  If they do, then it's probably not a good story, or at least not a pleasant one.

But if all goes well, and Mommy and Baby are healthy at the end, then it's likely not a good story.  And, oh yes, I thought of that.  In fact, that was my first reaction when the idea crossed my mind.  No, not a good reason, but there's a good reason that trumps it, even in my mind.  Three words for you:  Major Abdominal Surgery.

Don't get me wrong.  If it were a question of a c-section or my baby's health and safety, I'd take the c-section in a heartbeat.  But just because...?  (Just because my labor isn't progressing fast enough?  Just because I had one the last time?)  No, thank you.

My first decision was, in order to avoid the increased risk of a c-section, I'd skip the induction this time.  Inductions worked well with both of my others, but why take the chance?  As much as I love the doctor who delivered both of my babies (I scheduled so I could ensure she delivered them), I figured I could stand to wait it out this time.

And I was okay with that.  But I still planned the epidural.  After all, epidurals don't increase your risk of c-section, right?  Right?

But then I started stumbling across comments...birth stories...anecdotal evidence that maybe an epidural does increase your risk of c-section.  Stories of epidurals slowing down labor so much that the doctor orders on the pitocin, which leads to more interventions (some necessary, others possibly not), which eventually would lead to a c-section.

Really?  So I asked around a little, and found some literature, and did some research (admittedly secondhand - I just don't have the time to read the studies for myself at this point).  And there is actually quite a bit of evidence that an epidural can lead to an increased risk of c-section...and that it might not be best for Mommy and Baby in a vaginal delivery, either.

(Yes, I just used the word "vaginal."  Sorry, Dad, and any other men who might read this.  That's just how babies come out, at least 67% of the time.  Yes, you read that right, 67%.)

There are other reasons.  I know that the odds of the epidural slowing down labor enough to lead to a c/s in a third-time mom are fairly slim, but that was just where the research started, the tip of the iceberg, to use an overused cliche.  I'll get into some of the other reasons in a future post...but as I'm not trying to start a debate, I don't want to go into too much detail.  Just know that I have researched this, and I've found enough additional reasons to labor unmedicated that I feel very comfortable with my decision.

I'll admit, however, that I wasn't too happy about this at first.  I didn't want to skip the epidural.  I mean, hello?  Pain?  We are not friends.  We have never even been what you might call semi-close acquaintances.  But the more I looked into it, the more I felt convicted that that was the best route for me and for my baby.  It's not the best choice for everyone, but I feel clearly that it will be best for us.

So if I was going to do it, the next step was to figure out how to do it.  Which meant even more research.  And I learned that it's not always excruciatingly painful.  That it doesn't have to be scary...it really is a natural process!  Natural contracting and releasing of muscles, pulling up and out, to open up the...opening...(I'm trying, Dad) -- That doesn't sound nearly as frightening as I always imagined it.

I do realize it is usually painful, and I am not expecting it to be painless.  I know childbirth isn't easy, and it's not going to feel good.  I don't think I have any unrealistic expectations (but then again, who ever thinks they do?)  But I am trying to not have any specific expectations about how it is going to feel.  I'll plan on taking it as it comes.  I'm researching, and exercising, and preparing myself for what my body will go through, but trying not to have expectations beyond the knowledge that it is going to be a lot of hard work.

(Aaaaaaaand....the first storm is here.  It seems to have broken up a little bit as it hit the "Ohio River Triangle," where many storms seem to get lost, never to be seen again, but for the most part, this one made it through, and I'm going to try to remain calm until it passes.)

To my surprise, though (going back to the original discussion), I am finding that I am looking forward to the experience.  It didn't start out that way, and that was never and will never be my primary motivation. I'm not wanting to be one of those people who is "doing it just so I can say I can."  I think it's the best choice for me and my little Bumblebee, and I will continue to think that as long as no new, substantiated information comes along that tells me otherwise (specifically, from my caregiver; otherwise, I'm not going to change my mind).

There is a lot more to this story, but I realize this has gotten long and rambling.  I wasn't joking when I questioned my ability, at first, to organize my thoughts into something cohesive and coherent.  I think I've gotten my point across, but I think I could have said it much better, too.  So I apologize for that, and will try to put my thoughts in better order before I write the next installment.

(Incidentally, the storms are over now, unless something else pops up tonight.  The second storm that was headed our way pretty much did die on the Ohio River.  And I have no problem at all with that!)

A Haiku

2 p.m. At The Office
             or
I Ate Too Much For Lunch Today

Drifting quietly 

Into the land of slumber

Dozing at my desk

Bitty Surprise

This morning, as I was getting ready for work a little bit later than I usually do have been lately, I heard something unexpected.

The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up.  Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying.  For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee!  I want my mommy!"

Blink.  No, surely I must have heard that wrong.  Because she has never ever awakened asking for me.  Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night.  It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo!  I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead.  (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)

So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.

I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy."  Amazing.

I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me.  "Mommy!"  I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.

"Good morning, sweetie!  What do you want?"

Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?"  This morning, she asked a variation on it:  "What are we going to eat?"

"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.

She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion.  "Are we going to eat cake pops?"

Ahh, yes.  Cake pops.  She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them.  And suddenly it came together.  This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning.  Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning.  Or close to it.

And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical.  I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now.  I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around.  I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them).  But, no.  It is not coincidence.  Mommy made the cake pops.  Mommy is in charge of the cake pops.  I want a cake pop.  Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one.  I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.

Back to the conversation.

"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."

"When are we going to eat them?"

"We'll eat them after dinner."

"Oh."

"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."

"There is?  Is it the pink one?"

"Yes."

"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"

"Yes, there is."

"Is it the white one?"

"Yes."

"Is there one with your name on it?"

"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them.  But you can help me decorate them tonight!"

I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out.  The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.

"Can I help you decorate them?"

"Yes, you may."

"Can I help now?"

"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."

"Nooooo!  You can't go to work!"

And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.

Behold, the power of cheese Cake Pops.

Inspired!

Have any of you seen the Bakerella website?  She is amazing, and she has some of the most brilliant creations I've ever seen.

My favorites are her character-themed Cake Pops.  Take a moment to browse through some of the stuff she's done.  (But open it in another tab so you can come back and finish reading my post!)

As the title of this post suggests, I have been inspired to make some little cake pops of my own.  Me?  Really?  Yes.  Me.  I don't bake.  I'm so, so, SO not creative when it comes to drawing and designing things.  I just wasn't blessed in that area.  That's okay with me, because I have other strong points.  (Shhhh!  Let me have my illusions!)

I'm not one of those people who is good at doing something simple and being happy with it.  Just ask my husband, who cringes every time I have to take some sort of food item somewhere.  (Since having kids, I have gotten MUCH better about making a simple choice when it comes to a meal, but before I had two little monsters to chase, I would choose something difficult and impressive.  Or that would be impressive, if it worked.)  Sometimes my creations were brilliant, and sometimes they were duds.

And sometimes, it didn't quite seem like they would work up until the very last minute when, after hours of me cursing and throwing things and stomping around and weeping and anything else you can (or maybe can't) imagine me doing, they would turn out just fine, and I'd feel like a total doof for the way I'd been acting for the last hour or so while Craig hid in the family room playing his video game.

Oh, no, not me.

So, of course I can't just do plain old Cake Pops, not after seeing Bakerella's remarkable creations.  And I had a brilliant idea:  Goggy* Cake Pops for the Imp's birthday, which is about 3 weeks away.  No, wait.  Ooh.  Two weeks.  Eek.

* "Gog" = "Frog" in Imp-speak.

For once, though, I gave myself some realistic expectations (because, dang, those critters look hard)!  There were two main parts to it:  First, I would do a "test run" ahead of time so I could figure out little details, such as how long I should expect it to take (to avoid the last-minute scramble/working into the wee hours of the night before the party), what tools I'm going to need (to avoid the last-minute rush to the craft store), and what the best coating and decorating techniques would be (to avoid the last-minute frustration, anger, and tears when my ideas didn't work, after all).  Second, I plan on doing a variety of designs, and not make all of them little goggies, which will cut down on the more intricate parts.  There will be Gogs, balloons, and just plain balls (which I can decorate - or not - as I wish and have time to do).

I started my test run on Monday night, and let me say that I am so glad I decided to practice.  With two toddlers running around, it makes everything take so much longer!  Monday night, I got the cake balls made, the six test goggies shaped, and everything stuck in the fridge to cool.  I had to make my own icing because we didn't have any, and that was a little bit of a pain, but I vastly prefer homemade icing to store-bought anyway, so that didn't upset me much.  The cake was already made because we baked too much for the Birdie's birthday back in December and froze some of it.  I knew that could make it maybe not taste as good, but - hey! we are practicing! who cares?

Last night, I went to Michael's and got all of the crafting items I didn't have.  When I got home, Craig had to leave right away, so I ordered a pizza (because that's what the Birdie wanted, and who am I to deny her, haha) and got started dipping some of the critters.  I liked the initial results.  So did the Birdie, who wanted to eat the results.  Immediately.  Naturally.  (I did deny her that one, because if I let her eat them, then I'd have nothing left to practice decorating.)

Once the kids were in bed (and the Imp was rocked, and rocked, and rocked...thirty minutes, sigh) I decorated a few of the pops and dipped some more of them.  Here are the preliminary results (please excuse the camera phone photo, it was all I had on hand and my hips and feet and back and belly hurt too much I was too lazy to walk downstairs and get the real camera).

As you can see, I probably have about six or seven left to dip, and then we'll decorate them.  The Birdie has already claimed a seat at the table to help decorate.  :)

Once I'm done, I'll post about them, with real pictures and the lessons I learned for the next time I do them.  I'll also be asking what you like best, because I have two techniques I used for the goggies, and I need to decide which looks (and works) best.

I will say that they're not working out to be quite as hard as I expected, probably because I'm allowing myself extra time to do them and giving myself permission to make mistakes (which I wouldn't have, of course, if this weren't a practice batch).  They're far from perfect, which is fine.

Really.  Fine.  Fiiiiiiiine.  (Excuse me for a moment while I beat down my inner perfectionist.)

Okay, that's better.

Has anyone else tried these before?  If so, what did you do?  Characters or balls?  What colors?  How did they turn out?  I'd love to hear and see pictures, if you have them!

WHAT did that little boy just call me?

Kids do funny things.  Kids also do things that embarrass their parents.  Sometimes, they do things that are funny in one circumstance, and embarrassing in another.  And then you think, Maybe we shouldn't have laughed quite so much the first time.

For instance.

Yes, of course I have an example.  I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble.  Until, maybe, now.

It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor.  It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door.  Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly.  The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"

This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow."  And he will say it over and over.  Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow."  But we all know what he means.  And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable.  He has a very precious little voice.

So, fast forward to tonight.  My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church.  After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn.  We were all pleased with ourselves.

Especially him.  He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.

He's a bit into being the center of attention.  We may have a class clown in the making.

After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour.  The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think).  However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.

Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed.  "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.

* I know that sounds a little weird.  I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."

I answered with something like, "Thank you.  He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently.  After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see.  Ever.  I mean it.  So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.

Anyway.

The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!"  I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.

Well, usually.

Can you guess where this is going?

My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"

Blink.

Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled.  And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.

"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"

"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.

At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.

The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her.  Sigh.

Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered.  And she was probably right.  Double sigh.

I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow!  Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom.  And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.

So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.

(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles.  But I'll save that story for when it happens.  When.)

Please pray for us.  I think we may be in trouble.