Stages of Pregnancy

Hey, remember when I used to write a humor column for the local parenting newsletter here? Yeah, well I stopped that. They stopped mailing it out to parents and started emailing it instead, so I called it quits. Writing the darn thing was too much effort to have it immediately sent to everyone's email trash. Take that, stupid environment-loving Technology!

So anyway, here's the last column I wrote for that, or at least the last one that I haven't posted here yet. I'll explain some things at the end, too, but obviously this is quite dated since it's about being pregnant. And I'm not anymore. Are we all on the same page now?

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We are taught in school that there are three stages of pregnancy. My husband and I have survived all three stages, three times now. We will not be enduring them again after this time as our minds and bodies can’t live through it again. Let’s review these stages, shall we? It’s fun!

Stage 1: the Age of Puking.

Ah, nausea. My, my how you manage to take over and deaden the soul! I hadn’t had many problems with nausea with my first two pregnancies, but this last one was determined to be different. The worst instigator of my puking habits happened to be my toothbrush. The first time it happened I was merrily brushing my teeth when out of nowhere I puked in the sink. Now, how lucky was that, right? I mean, the sink was right there. And what is this? A toothbrush with toothpaste already on it?? Why, that’s exactly what I need after puking! Perfect! And I proceeded to brush my teeth again, only to throw up in the sink again. After the fifth or sixth time of this happening in a row, I began to notice a pattern (I do have a college degree after all!). And that’s when I begged, with nasty breath, that I be medicated to the best of my OB’s ability.

Stage 2: the Age of Prosperity.

Finally, your energy has returned, the puking medication is working on all fronts, people recognize you as pregnant rather than grotesquely obese, and your OBs are doing their best to inflict a heart attack as soon as possible. “You look great, Abby! Keep it up so you WON’T KILL THE BABY. Sure, yeah, you’re doing well just as long as you stay calm enough to NOT KILL THE BABY WITH YOUR RISING BLOOD PRESSURE. Why are you suddenly so upset? All you have to do is make sure you DON’T KILL YOUR BABY. Have a safe and NON-LETHAL DAY.”

This is also right around the time when your kids start to question you about where babies come from and why you and your partner would feel the need to introduce competition to them. I recall my five-year-old asking me one day who will take the baby out of my stomach once I got to the hospital. “The doctors will take her out.” “How will they take her out?” “With their hands.” “IN YOUR MOUTH?!?” and she laughed that hysterical, maniacal laugh she reserves just for me. While I was listening to her evil little laugh, it occurred to me that a baby coming out that end probably couldn’t hurt any more than the standard way we shove them out now.

Stage 3: the Age of Perpetual Senility.

I’ve come to look at this stage as being a window into the future of what I’ll be like 50 years from now. I’m but 33 at this moment, and yet I’ve already turned into a senile old woman who is suffering from complete and utter memory loss. The other day I got a phone call from a friend and she started out by saying, “So your mom’s coming to stay with you soon, huh?”

I gasped in amazement. “HOW did you know that??”

“Because you JUST sent me an email telling me that, like, two minutes ago, you dork.”

Sure enough, my email history did not lie to me, nor did my friend. “Oh, um, yeah, I vaguely recall that now (which is to say not at all).” Again, this happens frequently.

On several occasions I’ve gotten up in the morning, gone to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and declared with some shock and horror, “My GOSH I have really let myself go! When did I get so darn fat?!”, only to realize two seconds later that I’m in fact pregnant. I’m fairly certain I could be arrested for committing a multi-state armed bank robbery scheme and summarily convicted based upon numerous eyewitness accounts, plentiful DNA evidence, clear-as-day security video footage, and I wouldn’t have remembered a single second of it.

I’ve heard it said that our memories can only hold so much before non-essential information is expelled to make room for new data. This leads me to conclude that my baby is actually growing inside my skull, preventing any information from attaching itself to my brain at all. That huge lump on the front of my gut must therefore be the stores of fat that will see me through the long winter months ahead or something. Or at least that’s what the baby inside my head is telling me.

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Many thanks to Stephanie for proof-reading this piece. Apparently I went on and on and on and on in one section and she very kindly told me it was getting boring. The end result was far better due to her very wise warning.

About the puking. It was bad enough that when I'd throw up all the capillaries in my face and neck would burst (called "petechia" I've just discovered), leaving my face and neck completely purple. No, I am NOT exaggerating. It would eventually fade after about four days, but it was so embarrassing I never left the house unless I was going to the hospital to be put on fluids (yeah--like I was going to leave the house looking like a giant hickey? No thanks). So it was bad, hence the medication.

There is one more piece I started to write for the newsletter before I decided to quit. The columns had to be short and this one just plain didn't work as a short piece, so I buried it. If I ever resurrect it I'll let you know.

A Sweet Little Pea

My my, has it been nearly a month already? Did you miss me? No? Shut up.

So I had the baby. And by "the baby," I mean adorable SweetPea. As it turns out, the name fits her to a T. She is not only very sweet, but was the smallest at birth, too. Not the size of a pea, but you get the gist.

So here's what happened. The blood pressures went up and up and up, they tested my urine, it had craploads of protein in it making me officially pre-eclemptic (3-for-3 ladies and gentlemen!), and it was decided on that Monday to immediately expel the infant from my hefty womb. So she was scheduled for eviction on that Thursday evening. I had a headache Monday and into Tuesday, but it was manageable. By Wednesday afternoon it was a screaming migraine and I knew that as soon as I called Labor and Delivery, they'd induce me right away (as bad migraine is a sign of worsening pre-eclempsia and all that). So I waited for Peawhistle to get home from her very first day of kindergarten and I limped to a phone and called and sure enough they told me to come and in and bring all my hospital crap with me. [Fun sidestory: on PW's first day of preschool I went to the hospital for a high risk appointment and they wound up keeping me there and inducing Peanut; PW's first day of kindergarten I would up going to the hospital and being induced with SweetPea--totally not even planned, but way for her siblings to completely overshadow PW's personal milestones, eh?)

And it is here and now that I will openly whine and complain about one of the greatest gift God has ever given me. WORST LABOR EVER. FOR ME ANYWAY. Well, technically the worst delivery ever would have resulted in no baby and/or my demise, so not really the worst delivery ever, BUT certainly very painful. There was nothing the staff could do to assist in my dialation as I was just barely at 3cm when I went in Wednesday afternoon and 3cm is all they can get you to with their magic pills and balloons and whatever else they can think to shove up there, so all they could do was stick me on pitocin to start contractions. And 12 hours later I had progressed to a whopping 4 cm! Hooray for all that fricking excruciating pain for nothing! I've always wondered what going into labor naturally would feel like since I've heard forcing it with pitocin is a million times worse, and I had high hopes for this one, but oh well. And it is usually because of this unnecessarily accelerated pain that most folks on pitocin with no signs of natural labor starting any day soon choose to go with an epidural, as I did. And wouldn't you know it, it was medical student day there in L&D and I had a student try it three different times in three different places in my spine, all without result, before her mentor stepped in and supposedly did it right, also without pain relief in any form. But at least my back still hurts from it nearly three weeks later, so that's good anyway! And the best part? Dr. SourPuss who looked like she was in labor every second I saw her and yet, not being pregnant, I'm fairly sure she wasn't and thus had absolutely no excuse for her major attitude problem. This is the same woman who thought my hoo-hoo was her personal mitten. Remember the OJ trial where OJ kept trying to fit that glove over his too-big hand? That was her and me. And the woman would NOT STOP. She'd get in there and twist and turn and poke and prod and scrape and puncture and rip and whatnot, all while I'm screaming at her to get the hell out and away from me, which only made her do it all the more purely out of spite. I hate that woman. The rest of the crew, including the 3,582 medical students and nurses who were learning on the job and constantly taking my BPs, listening to my heart and lungs, testing my reflexes, poking my legs and feet, taking my temperature, and all every 5-10 minutes or so, were all very nice to me. The real nurses assigned to me were brilliant about delivering every combination of pain killer they possibly could for my migraine and bringing bags of ice from the ice machine for my head every half hour. I am forever in their debt. After a couple of days the migraine finally went away, but that was after the delivery of course, which didn't make it any better naturally. So after the 18 hour delivery (aren't they supposed to get shorter with each kid, not longer?), we had our sweet baby girl. And immediately after expelling her I turned to the Husband and said, "We are NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN." He agreed.

And SP had a hole in her head. It's called cutis aplasia and can be associated with horrific birth defects, but sometimes just shows up without reason and eventually heals over and whatnot. Basically, the skin didn't completely form over a very small spot on top of her head so it looked like someone dug a spoon into her scalp and scooped the skin out of it (they didn't though). Two weeks later it's completely healed over and the worst to be expected is no hair will ever grow from the scar. Meh, big deal. Coulda been much worse. Speaking of which, remember when they tested me three months into this pregnancy and announced that based upon my blood results I had a higher risk of having a baby with something awful like Trisomy 13 or 18? Her hole in her head is what gave them the false positive for that test. The presence of such a skin problem was evident even that early on, and since it can also be seen with 13/18 kids, it came up as positive on the test. Honestly, the medical world never ceases to amaze me.

But what makes this story even more entertaining was the head of Neonatology at the hospital who magically appeared the second it was reported that our kid had a hole in her head. She was an odd duck, this doctor, and she wandered the hospital with her own entourage of little medical students furiously scribbling notes whenever she spoke. I swear, you have never seen a doctor so excited to see a birth defect like this. I mean, she was just BARELY containing her smile as she spoke to us about it. She ran and retrieved her medical books about this with pictures of what SP had, which happened to be next to the photos of the worst versions of what kids with 13/18 could expect to be seen with, and with her reassurance that that didn't apply to us and we shouldn't look at those. All while she was showing them to us. Nice. So after she gleefully told us about the baby's problem and the phone calls she'd already made over to the main Hopkins Hospital to everyone who would be interested, who also definitely were, she yelled at her students to take photos of our kid's head in every position possible, at every angle, with and without flash, etc. "Well did you try the macro setting?? Well then get a camera that HAS it! Run!" And then she'd turn to us and, again, just barely keeping her feet on the ground, excitedly inform us that, "I only see this sort of thing about once a year. But don't worry, she's totally fine!" All while we could see she hoped and prayed she wasn't.

The next day she informed me that I was asleep when they came to tell me they were hauling the baby off for an ultrasound of her head by order of the main Hopkins hospital, so she, with her crew, told me after the fact, and that they were anxiously awaiting the results. I noted with much amusement that when she did finally come back with the results, her line of medical students was missing. She popped her head into my room, tossed the results on my bed and said, "Um, yeah, she's totally fine. Perfectly normal. Bye." and she scampered away. Well, more like dragged her feet out of there with a sad look on her face, but whatever. If this has reinforced one thing for me, it's that it's never a good thing when doctors are intensely interested in your child. Unfortunately, doctors are still intensely interested in Peanut. I don't need two kids like that.

Oh, oh, oh, and then there was The Nurse. When they switched me over to the recovery room where I stayed for a day or two after the delivery, I was assigned nurses in the morning and at night. At night I had the same nurse both times, but during the first day I had The Nurse. The second we met she seemed incredibly nervous. I have no clue why. I mean, I hadn't even threatened that one so what did she have against me? So all day she was walking on egg shells around me like some headcase. Because of my ever-persistant migraine, the nursery was very good about taking SP so I could get some sleep. Or rather, my night nurse was very good about insisting the nursery take her so I could get some sleep. I loved my night nurse. Greatest person in that hospital. Anyway, all day The Nurse kept asking me if I needed my baby or whathaveyou. If I knew she was sleeping peacefully in the nursery, mostly because I used to sneak across the hall and peek in the window to look at her and note that she was, I'd tell her no and that she and I were both just fine. Why pester the kid, am I right? Never bug a sleeping baby, folks. If they're happy, just let 'em be. This worried The Nurse to no end. The next morning nurse was awesome. I asked what else I had to wait for before being discharged and she said I still needed my Rhogam shot, and then she paused and said, "Your nurse from yesterday recommended that we call a social worker because she didn't think you were properly bonding with your baby. But the rest of the nurses said they didn't see that and I've been with you all of five minutes and I can see that's not the case at all, you're bonding with her just fine. So I'm not going to do that." THANK YOU AWESOME NURSE. What the hell?? I have CPS called on me and I'm not even out of the damn hospital yet?!? Holy crap alive! I will say here and now that The Nurse is an idiot. Has she honestly never seen a woman not hold her baby obsessively every fricking second of the day? What you're seeing here, dear lady, is not a lack of bonding but an overabundance of experience. Third kid, lady. I know what it's going to be like when I bring her home. I know I will have numerous hours upon hours with this child to look forward to. I also know how to accept help when it's offered, especially when it's being offered by professionals who are being PAID to watch her. And on top of that, I had a bloody migraine that would not have gone away otherwise. On top of this, I am the sort of mother who holds the baby constantly. Honestly, I am. I know you would never believe me unless you saw it, but unless she happens to be sleeping somewhere else for a couple of minutes (like her car seat or something) then I am holding her. I sleep next to her. I put her down to pee and shower and that's it. I know this about me: that I'm paranoid to not be with my babies constantly for fear they'll stop breathing. Part of that is just natural paranoia and part of it is Peanut's history. Everyone asks if that doesn't put more stress on me, but honestly it reduces the stress for me overall. If I can't see the baby and know that he/she's breathing, I freak out. So I simply don't put them down. So to have someone who is more adept at caring for newborns than I offer to take her for a few hours so I can get some sleep to dull my head pain is very kind and I'll take it, dammit. I wonder how many other women who have gladly take the nursery up on their offer have been called on by social services for it? Nice. Very nice.

SweetPea is doing well, despite my horrific parenting in the hospital. She is easier to figure out than the other two were: all she asks is to be fed, burbed, rested, and changed, in that order. Otherwise, she merely looks around very curiously, wondering why she was forced outside two weeks too early and why she was sent to us and not better parents. And oh my, the hair. The other two were hairless wonders, but this one. Oh my the hair!! I figure God put it there to distract us from the hole in her head and to cover it up a bit, which it certainly does. And honestly, she is so sweet. The Husband has never been too up on newborns as he's a little nervous around them, but this baby already has him wound around her little finger. PW adores her and Peanut is actually very gentle with her (now), occasionally giving her loving pats on the head and gently poking her eyes and nose (he's learning the names of facial features now, see). For someone who was created slightly unexpectedly, she's become the favorite of everyone around her. What a sweet doll.

Thanks again to everyone who helped make her entry into this world a healthy one, including everyone who prayed for her/us and helped reduce my BPs for as long as possible (it definitely prolonged her gestation). You're wonderful people. Also, thanks for never calling CPS. Really.

Pooling Our Resources

Good news everyone! I have craploads of protein in my urine! Hooray! Hooray for this! Because I didn't fricking JINX myself or anything when I told The Husband last week, "Wow, everything's going pretty well still, considering. This could be the ONE healthy pregnancy I produce!" Yay, I'm an idiot! Anyway, I'm back to testing for this crap and we'll see just how bad it is in a couple of days. And if I actually have to be stuck in bed like my mother wants me to be, or if they'll just call it good and force the poor little tot out now. Like I said, we'll see.

In other news, I have nothing more to say. So I'll post one of the articles I wrote for our neighborhood parenting newsletter. It's not as good as the next one that's coming, but it has to do with summer and stuff so I figured I should post it now and get it out of the way. Who's gonna stop me? YOU? Yeah, I didn't think so.

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It’s summer! Time for the outdoor excursions and fun to begin, specifically at the pool! Or, as it’s known in my house, waterboarding! Allow me to introduce the detainees to you:

*My daughter, 5, whose nickname is “Peawhistle.” If you have ever heard the screeching sound that a pea whistle makes, and the screeching sounds that constantly emanate from my daughter’s mouth, the correlation would be obvious.

*My son, 1.5, whose nickname is “Peanut.” He is allergic to everything he touches. Thanks Nature!

For some reason, my children view water as the worst thing ever created. Now, Peawhistle has never been a huge fan of the pool, but before last year she still went with me and at least moved around the shallow end largely unassisted. That’s fine. Last year I thought, idiotically it would later appear, that she was ready for beginner swimming lessons. Two weeks and eight lessons later, it was obvious that this was not to be the case. Most of the first week involved an overly dramatic and hysterical Peawhistle, dressed in a life vest no less, clinging to the swimming teacher like a spider monkey, and screaming, “HELP ME, I’M DROWNING, I’M DROWNING!!!!” while no fewer than one on-duty lifeguard and two other off-duty lifeguards all stared are her most intently, and every visitor at the pool looked on in amazement. The second week proceeded with her having nothing to do with the pool whatsoever, merely looking on at the other three students, while comfortably sitting in a chair in the shade with me and Peanut. Even the baby pool earned her utter distain after that.

Well that was a healthy $120 down the drain! It’s coming out of your allowance, kid!
Fortunately, I had the foresight to videotape much of this disaster in personal preparedness so at least it wasn’t a total waste. I’m sure she’ll thank me when we screen it at her wedding reception.

And then there is Peanut. Ah, Peanut, there are no words. This is the adorable boy who refuses to sit in an inch of water in the bathtub, resulting in every bathing session being conducted with a standing toddler enforcing a death-like grip on his mother, all the while screaming like he’s being beaten. I’ll assure you now, as I assure him every single time, that is not the case. I am comfortable in predicting that the odds of him enjoying a pool-time experience are less than optimal at this point.

This year Peawhistle has assured me that she will be braver at the pool. And true to her word, with a set of bright pink water wings in place (that never once got wet), she managed to survive her first experience in depths up to two feet of water without heart failure or screaming on either of our parts. She also confided very loudly that she is going to be a life guard one day. I pointed out that life guards typically need to know how to swim, nay, love to swim. She brushed aside my concerns as petty and assured me yet again that such trivial matters would not deter her from her newly discovered career path. We shall certainly see. (To be on the safe side, however, I would caution against swimming in any pool that advertises her as being in charge of your family’s welfare.)

This summer I encourage everyone to pull out the sunblock, don your swimgear, and have loads of fun at the pool! I can’t say we’ll see you there!

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I realize that much of this is familiar to many of you, probably because I just simply plagarized my own blog for it. But see, I moved some words around so it's totally OK now. See that?

Also, some of you who know the circumstances will also realize that shortly after this was written (not even published, just written mind you) both of these adorable children turned me into a filthy rotten liar. PW turned into a brave little fish for some inexplicable reason, and Peanut now loves the bathtub. Well, he likes it OK anyway. The trick there, though, was to have PW put on her very best and hammiest performance for Peanut whilst in the tub, going on and on about how great bathing is and how much more fun she's having in the tub than outside of it. After we convinced him to try a bath with her, he warmed up to it just fine and now can even bathe on his own without complaint. A hearty thanks to the consummate actress, Peawhistle, for convincing her dear brother within two week's time that taking baths is the most marvelous time one can possibly have on this earth. Heaven knows I tried for a year and a half to convince him of the same thing, all without any hint of success. Turns out big sisters are good for something after all.

"The Time Has Come My Little Friends...."

Once again, a great big thank you to all my adorable friends who have taken Peawhistle into their homes for months on end in an effort to save us all from a world of more destruction, chaos, and tears. But now it's time for a new era of destruction, chaos, and tears, and that era will come in the form of my mother flying in on Sunday to stay with us until the baby is born and then afterwards for a week or two, or until the police are summoned, whichever comes first.

My blood pressure, as I've exlained to a few of you over the past two days, has reached the end of its healthy limits. It is assumed it will pass into unhealthy territory very soon, and thus they have strongly suggested without argument from me that I begin fetal assessment testing twice a week until the birth. This put the Husband and I in a bind childcare-wise, which left us our only option left: call the Beloved Mother for help. And help she will give. In copious amounts no doubt. This "help" also means that the activities that I see as relaxing (such as writing like this) are not activities that she would see as relaxing, despite the fact that it keeps me sane and alone and quiet and all those wonderful things. No, my mother will likely insist I sleep 19 hours a day if at all possible, and if not, I'll simply be padlocked in my room until she's determined I'm relaxed enough to come out, i.e., never. So I can't imagine I'll be writing a whole heck of a lot in the month to come. I'll try to sneak in here on occasion--if nothing else, I feel an overwhelming need to check my email at least once a day--perhaps when I've been able to successfully overwhelm her and tie her up and/or completely knock her out (in a totally legal I-know-her-so-it's-totally-OK kinda way).

Anyway. That's that. Thanks again to my dear friends for all your help and please allow me to bring you a dinner and/or dessert of your choosing. Otherwise I'm going to make a fabulous meal that will get thrown through your front glass window, and trust me, no one wants that. Least of all you, because I'll be damned if I'm cleaning that mess up.

Wish us all luck in the coming month and pray no one dies in the process of us all loving each other too much and crap.

I Regret to Inform You....

Regrets. I've got 'em. The first regret I have is that I've apparently been lacking in my entertain-the-masses duties, according to all of two people. I haven't posted much of anything this month, and not because I've been having an amazing, exciting summer, but exactly the opposite. Every day is much like the others, so there's nothing new to report other than I'm alive. And you can just go ahead and assume that anyway, barring any large news stories contrary to that assumption. (Reminds me of what my dad always says when we wish him a safe flight home: "If I don't, you'll hear about it on the news!") So really, you haven't been missing much. But apparently I have. Hence the lack of writing.

Regret #2: that I'm not in the hospital at this point. I was telling Lovely Lisa the other day that I feel genuinely awful that I'm not at least on bed rest by now, and hospitalized at the most. I've been threatening/been threatened with horrible news this entire pregnancy, only to have it pan out that I'm still merrily chugging along at nearly 34 weeks. This is not to say there are no more concerns, but so far none of them have forced me into desperate circumstances. Or at least none beyond guilting my loving friends into helping me out when apparently there was no need to help me at all. I can only blame one set of people for this paradox: My Loving Friends. Yes YOU all are to blame for this and let me tell you why. You have all admitted to sending good thoughts and prayers in my direction for months. How many times have you been warned to be careful what you pray for, huh?!? God is listening! What, do you think this is some kind of joke or something?? My goodness folks, if you expect me to wind up medically incapacited at some point it would really help if you didn't pray for the opposite effect. And on top of that, you actually volunteered to take my irritating child when I asked you to, which has significantly lowered my blood pressures all around! So on top of praying to the one person who can actually perform miracles in this department, you also did all you could to help me physically. I just don't know what to say to that except that my still being in tact and running on full steam here is all your doing. I just hope you're all sufficiently happy now.

And finally, regret #3: not speaking to my son directly since the day he was born. Supposedly speaking to him results in his speaking back to me or some such voodoo like that. But since I don't talk to anyone on earth if I don't have to, let alone my adorably annoying children, my kids don't hear "words and phrases" or "communication in any form." This has led to Peanut's inability to speak on command. At 21 months he should be saying at the very least six words, and by two years should be speaking in two-word phrases. Pfffttttppppphahahahahaha! Oh my, but he is no where close to that. Now, PW wasn't a quick, early talker herself (again with the not talking to her either), but extended family came through and talked to her instead and now you couldn't pay her to shut up (I know this for a fact from sorry experience). Peanut has not had the travelling advantages that PW had early in her life and he is paying for it now. So today he has a hearing test to make sure he's hearing us correctly, which I'm assuming he is, and tomorrow he's being evaluated by speech therapists to make sure he doesn't require professional intervention (which I'm guessing they'll say he does, regardless of whether or not he actually does require it because that's simply what they do). His pediatrician, Dr. Smart-alec, isn't overly concerned as he himself didn't say a word until he was three and he seems to speak OK now and all, but ever since the incident he and his overwhelming guilt will never allow him to take things in stride with Peanut ever again. Hey, whatever does the trick.

And FINALLY finally, Regret the Fourth is admitting to you jerks on facebook that I have occasional bouts of stupidity in my head that I typically keep to myself as a form of natural deception in an attempt to convince you I'm a genius. I regret this because according to two of you bastards, I'm not good at keeping those thoughts to myself at all. In fact, according to one of you, that's exactly what my blog is for. My blog (this one right here) is full of nothing but idiotic ramblings having no purpose here on earth except to expose my vast lack of intelligence on any scale. Did I mention I hold grudges? And that I gave you ample opportunities to take back what you suggested, which neither of you cared to do? I just thought I should remind you two of that. Every single time I speak to you from now on. You know, because we're friends and all.

Why Do I Even Bother?

Blogs are for whining and complaining, right? Right? Fantastic. Let it proceed.

So yesterday I developed a bad headache that I knew would wind up to be a migraine. I knew because I'm brilliant. Around 9:15 pm, coincidentally right at the moment The Husband walked in on me watching that freakshow "18 Kids and Counting" and said, "What the hell is this?!" I developed said whopper of a migraine. After arguing for 30 seconds about who "the hell" the Duggars were and if, in fact, The Husband had indeed heard of them before that very moment like I know he had, I stumbled to bed. And I didn't sleep until 4:45am. This had to be one of the worst and most painful migraines I've ever had in my life. And not only that, it freaked me the crap out because it didn't hurt in the same places it usually does, cold didn't help it but made it ten times worse, and lying down made it downright unbearable. So I would sit in bed clutching my head until I would pass out from lack of sleep, only to bolt straight upright in bed again 30 seconds later because the excrutiating pain had woken me up. As I mentioned, this went on all. night. long. *

Finally, I got desperate enough that I decided to call the hospital, or more accurately, the Labor and Delivery doctors at the hospital since they love to hear about any complaint you have while you're pregnant. Now, you know my thoughts on hospitals and their effectiveness when it comes to solving migraines. As in, they suck at it. And so it was with great misery and desperation that I called them at 4:30 in the morning. This after avoiding such all night, thinking The Husband would have to miss work and Peanut would starve to death while I was gone, and blah blah blah. I finally stopped caring about my loved ones at all and made the call. I mumbled my problem and the doctor asked a couple of questions and said...wait for it..."Take some Tylenol and call back in an hour if it isn't better." If I could have seen straight I would have driven to the hospital and murdered this doctor. TYLENOL?? OF COURSE! IT'S ALL SO CLEAR NOW. THE WORST MIGRAINE EVER CAN BE SOLVED BY TYLENOL. WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF IT FIRST? BECAUSE I DIDN'T GO TO EXPENSIVE DOCTOR SCHOOL, THAT'S WHY.

But I couldn't see to drive, so I decided to do what she said just out of spite. "FINE, I'll take the damn Tylenol. Stupid doctor. Yes! Tylenol! That genius of medications that solves absolutely nothing! Hooray! *popping of Tylenol in mouth* Just wait you jerks. My brain will be bleeding out of my ear when I show up on your doorstep in an hour, you wait and see. Tylenol. That's the fricking stupidest thing I've been told yet and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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I woke up two hours later to my inner baby trying to kick her way out of my stomach and with the worst migraine of all time, uh, gone. I was left with only a standard migraine. I can deal with that. I know how to handle that kind. That other kind, not so much, obviously. And I missed the one hour deadline to complain to the hospital, too. Damn.

No, I will most certainly NOT apologize to you, Tylenol! Where were you all those years before when I needed you?? Sure, you come riding in on your white steed at the last possible moment before I cram my head into the garbage disposal and claim victory, but that just isn't good enough! It doesn't make up for all the other failures, do you hear me??

Stupid Tylenol.

*In case you're confused, I long ago made a pact with The Husband that my migraine=his sleeping somewhere else. He gets sleep and I get to thrash and writh about in agony without worrying that I'm keeping him awake. Plus I can hog the blankets.

So Why Is PW At My House Again?

It's been a while since I've talked about The Pregnancy, so let's get on with it. First off, let me get something out of the way. All of the dear people who have actual contact with me and know of the looming medical problems I have hanging over my head always ask me how I'm feeling. This is terribly kind and thoughtful of them, particularly when accompanied by that worried furrowed brow-thing they do at the same time. Allow me to answer you here with the same answer I've been giving all along: I feel fantastic, thanks for asking! And this is where those of you who have been kind enough to entertain certain peawhistles in your homes give me a look that says, "Then why the hell am I babysitting your kid for you every week??" Because I asked and you're nice, that's why. You're an angel for this, trust me.

Allow me to explain the situation further, won't you? I have two issues the OBs are constantly hounding me with, or rather one big issue with two defining initial symptoms. The two symptoms are extreme protein loss and high blood pressure. OK, prepare yourselves for talk about my urination. Peeing protein doesn't hurt one bit. Losing protein doesn't hurt one bit. You'd never know you were doing it without a test telling you so. So there's that. High blood pressure doesn't hurt. It hurts your heart, sure, but you can't feel that. Occasionally I can feel my heart practically beating out of my chest, but that's usually when Peawhistle is bugging the crap out of me, hence why she's now at your house instead of mine. Otherwise, I would never have guessed my BPs are higher than normal without doctors telling me so. I feel fine pretty much all the time, aside from occasional pregnancy annoyances that most pregnant mothers deal with. I have more energy than ever and I find it difficult to sit still sometimes because my body is telling me I'm just fine. I have to force myself to sit down at the very least, let alone lie down when I can. Without OBs thrown in the mix I would think this was a perfectly normal and healthy pregnancy. However, it is the tests contradicting my opinion of my overall health. And it is the OBs conducting these tests telling me that if things get worse I'll be put on bed rest, and if they get worse than that I'll be hospitalized until the birth. I really, really, really don't want that, and neither does anyone else related to me in any way, hence why I took the bull by the horns once I discovered a problem rearing its annoying head. That's why you're watching Peawhistle and why also, so far, I'm doing great. And you have my undying devotion for it, too, believe me. You'll all be getting cakes after this affair is over with.

As for my tests of late, they're looking good, although I admit that hinging on the cusp of a potentially life-threatening disease that has no personally perceivable symptoms is not encouraging and isn't doing my peace of mind any good at all (otherwise I'm terrific!). They did baseline tests for everything to make sure they have something to compare it to if things start to go south. I still have protein in my urine, but not huge amounts yet so they say I'm still within normal ranges. Also, my BPs have been down these last two times. I got very hopeful by this news and hoped the OB would be as well until she informed me that they expected them to drop in the second trimester anyway as all women's do during this time, but they were up initially in the second trimester too, so I don't know what they're going on about. But at least they're down for now. She did hint that third trimester is when they start to go up again so that's when they would think a problem would come up if at all, but at least I've got 4-5 more weeks until then, and she said if I do wind up with pre-eclempsia again they could induce as early as 37 weeks if all is still going relatively well. So that's not tooooo long, but long enough to be worrisome.

Also, I've found that yet another switch in OBs has helped tremendously. The second-to-last one went into labor so I switched to the one I wanted all along for the last two visits (the ones with lower BPs I might remind you). I love this woman because she is very, very, very calm. There are no emergencies with this woman, no life-or-death consequences, no "YOU BETTER LOWER YOUR BLOOD PRESSURES OR YOU'LL KILL YOUR BABY." Just an all-around optimistic and happy, easy-going attitude. The woman is so calm I wouldn't be surprised at all if a waft of weed followed her into every appointment; in fact, if it helps me to be calm too, I'd highly encourage it from her. So thank you, pot-smoking OB! Your attitude keeps me calm. Let's hope it carries over into the next trimester. Otherwise you'll be seeing a lot more of my dear mother, and that's not good for anyone's blood pressure, trust me.

For Those In Authority

For those who were looking for the videos in the old Celtic Man post through the link in the last post, I've replaced the broken video links with different (not necessarily better) videos from Youtube. Also, I've added new commentary.

So I went in for my ultrasound on Tuesday to see what's what. They found no signs of any abnormalities associated with Trisomy 13 or 18, so that's good news. They did find an enlarged stomach (the baby's, not mine, although I'm certain they noticed that as well) though, which can be associated with Downs Syndrome. However, given that when I had my Downs Syndrome screening I came out with a lower chance of it than when I went into the screening, they're basically ruling that out as a possibility. Worst case scenario is the baby has a blockage in the intestines which would be fixed with surgery as soon after birth as possible. But more likely than that, there's just a bunch of amniotic fluid in there that hasn't passed out of the stomach and into the bladder yet. So I go back in five weeks to be looked at again to see if it's any smaller. Hey, could be worse.

Good news folks! My blood pressure went down slightly, but the OB wasn't nearly as thrilled about this as I was since it's supposed to go down in the second trimester anyway. But I was in the second trimester when it was going up, so I still claim it as a good sign that all of you stealing my child is working. Thank you so much! And even though she keeps asking me why I keep taking her to her friends' houses (can you guess how often she saw her friends before?), she's still thrilled either way. Thanks to all of you givers out there. And for all of you non-givers, I totally don't blame you. Honest.

Speaking of Peawhistle, she had a bit of a run-in with her instructors at gymnastics a week ago. Because these people serve peanuts directly out of their vending machines, I can't keep Peanut in the waiting room while we wait for PW's class to get over. So I drop off PW and Peanut and I drive around or go to the grocery store or whathaveyou until her class is nearly done and then we go hang out in the doorway for five minutes until she comes out. Every week. Yes, it's just as fun as you're imagining. Anyway, when I went to greet her at the door as she was coming out her instructor (20-ish; surly) informed me that PW had been "nasty" to her teachers that day on the beam. Now, I've seen PW be a little jerk before, but it's almost always completely unintentional. I've never seen her do anything I would label as outright nasty behavior. She's a good kid who has absolutely no tact and very strong opinions (more on that below). But nasty? Hm. So I asked her what she did and apparently PW had been trying to walk across the beam as instructed, but when the teachers went to take her hand to help her across, PW insisted most strenuously and none-too-kindly that she wanted to do it by herself and she didn't need their help. And when they grabbed for her hand anyway, she tried to slap it away. Now, the slapping is inexcusable. I don't tolerate that crap. I've seen her do it many, many times mind you, usually to me, but that doesn't mean it's OK. So I made her apologize to her teachers for being mean, I chastized her all the way home, her father lectured her when he got home, and I reminded her throughout the week that she has to be nice to her teachers because they're there to help her and keep her safe, not hinder her independence as she suspects, and they know what's safe and she doesn't. I told her about her older cousin who was doing something across the beam and wasn't being spotted when she fell and broke...some limb, I can't recall. Not important. Anyway, I think I got the point across. So all week I reminded her that she was to be nice to the teachers and that if she was mean even one more time she would be pulled out of gymnastics permanently.

So this week I asked a kind lady at church to babysit Peanut at home so I could sit and watch PW to make sure she wouldn't wield havoc on the entire gymnasium. And as I watched her walk across the beam all by herself (something she used to refuse to do out of fear) with her teachers merely watching her, I realized why she got upset: she actually CAN do it alone and she knew it. And I was reminded of something Peter's mother, Jenny, said a long time ago. Jenny, Greta, and I were sitting around talking about our kids behind their backs and Jenny said that PW is a very good, sweet kid who plays well on her own and is very nice to others, etc. But she does NOT like being told what to do. And it hit me that that is PW's biggest problem in general when it comes to why she gets in trouble at home or anywhere else. She's a great kid right up until you tell her to do something. And then her head spins around and fire shoots from her eyes and we wind up having to call in the exorcist. AGAIN. And then I realized with a mixture of horror and pride that I am exactly the same way. I mean, exactly. For example:

Poor, unsuspecting individual: "Peawhistle, would you please help me clean up the toys?"
Peawhistle: "Why, sure!" (actually, she says "shee-you-er;" she has the weirdest accent)
vs.
PUI: "Peawhistle, clean up the toys."
PW: "NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!"

PUI: "Hey Abby, would you volunteer to help out with so-and-so some time?"
Me: "Yeah, I'll look at my calendar and see what I can do."
vs.
PUI: "Abby, I need you to do this."
Me: "Yeah, well I need you to go to hell."

You see what I'm getting at. Essentially, we both have a major problem with authority, and I in particular have a problem with those who believe erroniously they hold some authority over me but have yet to prove how this is possible in any way or fashion. And I will gladly tell them this. Peawhistle hasn't yet developed a sense for who actually has authority over her and who does not, but she is sure as hell certain that it doesn't include everyone who's telling her they do. That's my girl.

So my point in telling you all this is to serve as my private warning, particularly to those very kind individuals who have volunteered to take her for an afternoon and have yet to discover for themselves what it's like to order her to do something. Because that sweet smiling face that you all can't believe could turn hideously deformed in a second? Believe you me, it's there. Waiting. Waiting for you to screw up your courage enough to test her limits.

For the record, PW behaved wonderfully in gymnastics this week, doing everything she was told to do, including taking her instructors' hands while on the beam when they dared stretch it forward to her. It took convincing her they were there for her safety and not just because they were jerks who like to boss her around. Safety: cool; bossing: screw you, lady. So don't say I didn't warn you.

Oh, I almost forgot.



I am now taking name suggestions for the newest Pea-? in our blogpod. I liked Kristi's "SweetPea" suggestion from ages ago, but I'm also open to other ideas. Anything?

UGH.

Two things. First off I meant to tell you this last night but I forgot. Two nights ago I had a dream where I was looking at the display buttons on my oven and noticed for the first time that one of them said "End Of The World" and another said "End Of The World LIVE!" So it turns out that once the end of the world came about, I could watch it happen, live even, on my oven display screen, which is approximately 1.5" across. I don't know about you, but when the world comes to an end the last place I want to be is staring at my stovetop. Because that probably means I'm cooking, which happens to be one of my least favorite necessary activites ever. But then, Heidi helpfully pointed out that I could instead watch the end of the world on the 5" screen on the side of my fridge (that magically appeared just then), which naturally would afford a much better view of the Four Horsemen. I agreed that that was a far better option. Of all of my appliances, the fridge is by far my favorite as it holds all of my precious, precious goodies. If I have to die during an apocalypse, I can think of no other overly large object I'd rather spend my last moments here on earth with. I love you, Sweet Refrigerator! I will send you a Hallmark card to make this clear.

And the second thing. *Sigh* I HATE asking for help. HATE IT. Because I don't ever feel I need it and then your friends help you anyway because they feel guilty/scared of hell if they don't. But apparently I do actually need help according to my OB (the good one, not the one I hate; or at least "good one" so far). I am not known for having healthy pregnancies in the least. They turn into high-risk pregnancies for various reasons, some imagined by doctors, some genuine. The most serious genuine problem I have had with both pregnancies is pre-eclempsia. It can be very, very serious if it's not controlled properly, as in seizures, organ failure, and death of mother and/or infant. Not pleasant. Given my poor history with this (bed rest for two months with PW and doctors constantly debating about how early to force PN out versus our collective health) I knew I would wind up with it with this one, too. However, I kinda figured I could dodge it for a while, especially given the fact that they didn't suspect me of having it with Peanut until I was three weeks from my due date. Well, apparently that wasn't meant to be. I am already leaking protein and my blood pressures are slowly going up and I'm only 18 weeks along. The OB thought it best to properly warn me that given how early this could be starting I could be looking at hospitalization if it's not controlled well enough with medication and resting as much as I can. She recommended I stay off my feet while I can now to hopefully stave off rising BPs, but I think I made a case that with an 18-month-old Holy Terrorist Mamma's Boy in the house, that's not too bloody likely. She asked if I could put the kids in daycare every day, but I can't do that with Peanut because of his allergies. I can stick PW in, but she's the one who keeps Peanut out of my hair most days, or at least more than when she's not around. She asked if I had relatives who could come and help out, but my in-laws are so old that they're exhausted if they simply stare at my children for an hour (and avoid doing even that as much as possible), and my mother drives my BP up more than any other situation on earth. The Husband absolutely has to work, but he is shifting his schedule to drive in at O-dark-thirty so he can be home in time to help feed PW and put the kids to bed so I can rest then. She asked if I had friends who could come watch my kids, but every person I know has trillions of small kids themselves and I really don't want THEM developing high blood pressure as a result of my kids.

So here is my pathetic plea: are there any friends close by who are currently Peawhistleless who would be willing to watch a Peawhistle play with their similarly-aged child while Peanut takes a nap in the afternoon, maybe just one day a week or something? She's good at playing on her own and she's usually good at not starting fights and stuff. Sometimes she's polite and she won't pee on your carpet. She has preschool for one more month that goes in the afternoons until 1:30 and that's when I've been able to put Peanut down for a nap. I just need some quiet time to lie down and more importantly calm down, because if there's one thing I'm not exactly known for, it's being calm, particularly around small children, especially my own. They stress me out like none else, particularly when elevated hormones are at play and I just want to cry and/or run away. So would anyone please help me with Peawhistle once in a while? Not every day or you'll wind up hating her, and worse yet, hating me. And we certainly don't want that because we all know you can barely stand the sight of me as it is. I feel really bad asking because now I feel like a complete failure both in the parenting department and especially the pregnancy department. But I really do need help. If this gets worse I won't be able to watch my kids at all, or worse yet, not even see them because I'll be in the hospital and we all know what that means: my mother will be here for months. I love her and I especially love knowing that she would do whatever she had to do for me and my kids. But she really, really stresses me the crap out. And the poor Husband said, "I really, really, really, really don't want to have to have your mom come out here for months. Really. Really. Really." Really. Anyone? Please? Help....

I'm Too Busy Thinking For Title-Making

All right, enough is enough. For all of you folks out there who are finding my blog by googling "how to get away with murder" and particularly to the brainy fellow who googled "how to murder your girlfriend and get away with it," I'd just like to ask you all, just how stupid does one have to be to attempt to try to get away with committing murder in the first place, and THEN lack the brains to figure it out without the assistance of Google as your nearest accomplice? JUST STOP IT. YOU'RE EMBARRASSING YOURSELVES.

I know you're all tired of hearing just how huge I am right now and I truly care about your feelings. That's why I'm going to continue beating this dead horse until I have no friends left. Yesterday I was at the grocery store and got talking to another woman my age who was also waiting for her turn at the deli counter (it should come to no surprise to you all that it was she who struck up the conversation, not me; hormones don't make me social). She asked how old Peanut was and then added, "And I see you're expecting another one as well!" I confirmed this for her but assured her I wasn't that far along. She shared that she was also expecting another baby, but she in turn assured me she wasn't nearly as far along as I was. "You'd be surprised," I told her. She scoffed and asked when I was due. I told her September, and her face froze in a lack of comprehension. Then it shifted to a rather surprised look, but she kept her cool and said, "O...oh. OK." And she forced a smile. I hoped to beat her to the next line of questioning and said, "And now is when most folks would ask me if I'm having twins (no) or assume I'm going to have a huge baby (again, no)." And she sorta smiled and said, "Well, you know, people make comments" and turned away without another word. Do you see now people? DO YOU SEE?? Yes, strange tactful lady, people DO make comments, and I thank you for keeping yours to yourself. Keep it up.

I would like to share two major accomplishments for our little family here over the past week. First off, the Husband and I went on a date while my mother was here and wound up looking for bunk beds to cram our millions of children into. We found a great set for cheap at a going-out-of-business sale and bought it. Last Friday he collected the boxed set and began putting it together. He began later in the afternoon because "it'll take two hours, tops. I mean, this is totally easy." Nine hours and several previously undiscovered swearing combinations later, the bunk beds were as completed as necessary for one child to sleep in them without it killing her in her sleep. Hooray for the Husband and his various tools and terribly useful curse words!

As for my own accomplishment, let me take you back in time to last week. I was famished. Now, this is a recent development as I had previously been puking everything in site on a near-constant basis as I believe I alluded to in my last post. I am on anti-puking medication now so I can eat and keep it down. And it's working! So I was famished. I really, really wanted a Pizza Hut pizza. And so after driving Peawhistle to preschool, Peanut and I stopped in and ordered a medium deep-dish cheese pizza to-go. On the way home I ate the whole thing. Well, I restrained myself and saved the two smallest pieces for PW's dinner, but the whole time I never once thought, "Wow, I'm getting full." No, in fact with each piece I ate my stomach continued to grumble with hunger. No, I'm most certainly NOT pulling your leg. After I ate most of the pizza I had to drink an Orange Crush followed by several glasses of water before the hunger pangs subsided. The frick you say?

I have never been able to consume more than half a medium pizza in my entire life up until last week. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided today to try to duplicate the event to see if it was just a fluke or if I had indeed discovered a newfound superpower. This time I upped the ante and ordered a medium pepperoni pizza to see if that would make a difference. I finished the second-to-last piece before I couldn't eat anymore. Apparently the pepperonis do indeed offset the results of this experiment. Anyhoo, I don't think I'll be replicating it again soon as I'm sure a heart attack is merely biding its time, but pretty amazing, huh? Yeah, I was proud of me, too. Feel free to high-five me the next time you see me.

Go Ahead, Call me Ishmael

In case you were curious, I don't do April Fool's crap. Mostly because I'm not 12. Take a lesson, adults.

Geez, all right already! Here are the fat pregnancy photos, as promised. (Actually, I haven't had any complaints that they weren't being posted, but I like to act like my public is constantly clamoring for every stupid detail about my life. They aren't, by the way. Probably because my clamoring public cares less than I do.) I know you think I was trying to get out of it, and honestly I was, but I keep my promises I assure you. That'll learn you to assume the worst about me, even if you totally should.

I took the following photo for you ingrates when I was almost 15 weeks (that being two weeks ago). Note, this is what I looked like after not having gained any weight yet, either. In fact, I had lost weight to the point of concern. Behold:

Now tell me, does that look like 3+ months pregnant to you? I didn't think so.

Oh, have no fear, it gets much, much worse. Stephanie was kind enough to forward the photo she took of me on my last day of being pregnant with Peanut. Sidestory: I went to her house that morning and asked her to take a photo of me pregnant since I didn't have any pregnancy photos for Peanut at all. Turns out it was a good thing I asked her since I left her house to immediately go to a regular OB appointment at the hospital where they insisted on freaking the crap out for various reasons and moving my induction date up to, well, that very second. So I didn't get to leave the hospital for a few days and by then I wasn't pregnant anymore. Anyway.

Here's me at 38+ weeks the last time:

Yeah. Alarming, ain't it? I didn't even stretch the photo to make me look that scary; it's all natural, baby. By the way, that was after having gained less than 20 pounds the whole pregnancy. Oh yes, I'm a modern mircale all right. So this is what I, and many of the rest of you who are forced to look upon me on a regular basis, have to look forward to in the next five months. Huzzah!

OK folks, per the comments that have been coming in I have two things to say. First of all, I know I look pregnant. I never said I looked anything but. The problem is everyone assumes I look further along in this pregnancy than I actually am. So the fact that I look pregnant is not up for debate here. Personally, I don't think I look AWFUL right now, but I think I look a little large for 17 weeks. But I've been through a couple of pregnancies before this, too. So whatever.

And secondly, everyone keeps asking who is accusing me of being so huge as if I'm going to name names or something. I usually don't even know these people's names but I do know they're all RAT BASTARDS. End commentary.

And So It Begins....

Yesterday I had someone ask me if I was having twins. Remember, I'm only 14 weeks along. Admittedly, I look about five months at this point, but the twin question? Already? I assured her I was not and then sighed as the inevitable "Wow, you're gonna have one huge baby!" comment followed. Again, I assured her I was not. And then I bored her silent with my standard tedious pregnancy history. I plan to do the same here.

It's difficult to explain my personal physique to other people and why I look unnaturally and monumentally huge compared to everyone else with the same gestational aged baby as myself. For one, I have absolutely no stomach muscles. My body gave up on those about halfway through with Peawhistle. To make matters worse, maternity pants offer no support whatsoever. So what used to be shoved against me with the assistance of the threadbare strength of my Eddie Bauer jeans is now left to hang pathetically in front of me. Mind you, it used to be even worse on Sundays. Given my horrendously long waist and unnaturally midget-like legs, no pantyhose actually stay up past my waist for more than 10 minutes. That is, except for the maternity pantyhose that are designed to ride up far over your belly's expansiveness. So starting at about six weeks pregnant I had to start wearing those suckers, and if there's one thing they're not, it's "control top."

Anyway. So it all hangs out in front. A lot. Mostly because there is absolutely no other place in my torso for the baby to sit, what with that space being occupied mostly by my valuable stores of fat that see me through the long harsh months across the Sahari Desert. So my little satellite lives entirely outside of my body, attached onto it only by a thin layer of skin. With Sputnik in place, it pulls all of the fat and extra skin from all over my body and yanks it out in front of me. So surprisingly, I don't look like I'm pregnant from the back at all. In fact, I look thinner from back there. Even from the front, or even just the waist up I don't look that pregnant. But you catch me on the profile (which isn't hard to do in my condition) and, based entirely upon past experiences, you and your companions will gasp in wide-eyed horror at the sight before you. That's also when you'll unpolitely ask just how much weight I've gained in my obviously 90-week pregnancy.

For the record, I haven't gained a pound since even before I got pregnant. No, I'm not kidding. But look at my gut. Go ahead; I dare you. See if you believe me. Of course you don't. Because I'm having twins. Huge, fricking twins.

In other happy news, both Jody and Lisa have delivered delicious cookies to me within the past two days (where were these people in December?). Because if there's one thing I'm not, it's fat enough. Thanks again!

It's Not Polite to Stare

YES, for the love of all that's holy, I'm pregnant, all right? 13 weeks even. Because I've only been having people ask me since I was, what, eight weeks? As in, when my body completely failed to keep it a secret from anyone I came in contact with? Because all the fat that I used to try to stuff into my pants was pushed up and out by my watermelon-sized super uterus resulting in the Most Overflowing Muffintop Ever Vaulted Onto Mankind? Yeah.

See, I'm not as talented in the baby-hiding department as say, my friend, Jody. Jody walked into labor wearing the same pants she'd been wearing nine months prior. In fact, when she produced the baby at church, none of us believed it actually came out of her. She assured us it did. How she managed to hide that entire baby in there can only be explained by Jody's miraculous survival skills, seeing as how she obviously does not possess internal organs.

But I, on the other hand, do have all my parts in tact, and then some. When I was pregnant with Peawhistle I looked obviously pregnant by 12 weeks and had to move into maternity wear. With Peanut, it was 10 weeks. This one, 8. At this rate I'll be moving into maternity pants before I even know I'm pregnant. Or worse yet, just wear them all the time. I guess that would solve everything.

I am huge throughout my pregnancies in case you haven't caught on. By six months I am getting the comments about "Isn't that baby out yet??" and "How overdue are you?" With Peanut I was in for a six-month ultrasound and a woman in the waiting room nodded her head and said, "Twins, huh?" "No, actually, just the one." "Are you sure? They can check those things now." (She was older, but apparently also an idiot.). "Yes. I've seen it on the scans. Just the one." "Hm. Well, that's gonna be one huge baby!" [Curt smile, followed by ignoring her.] For the record, Peanut couldn't even manage to top 7 lbs. I get this a lot. A LOT. And for those who have not actually seen me at nine months pregnancy, you cannot possibly fathom what a sight I make for the general public. Really. Don't even try or it'll hurt something internal (unless you're Jody).

Oh, and the doctors. Oh my goodness the doctors. I had an OB appointment today. I came out of there absolutely fuming. I consider myself an easy patient. If it makes sense, I'm going to do what I'm told to. If you're not an idiot, dealing with me will be smooth sailing, I assure you. The OB/GYNs that I saw for Peanut left me with such perpetual heartburn and spiking blood pressure that I swore I would never go through them again. And yet, here I am with them again, experiencing the same damn heartburn, etc., mostly because they're too darn convenient to get to vs. the good ones who are half a world away. With Peanut they swore up and down throughout the entire thing that something must be wrong with me. No, the test results always came back just fine. But someone at my age? With my enormous fattitude? Being healthy? Why that's preposterous!! Here, let's find something that's wrong with you to justify our existences here!

Here's how the conversation went today. The conversation that made my blood boil. You know, for the record and all.

OB: OK, and we're going to do the glucose challenge today as we discussed at our last meeting.
Me: We did not discuss any such thing at our last meeting.
OB: Yes we did, because here is the information right here in your file.
Me: We DID NOT DISCUSS THIS. You know why? Because I would have LOST MY CRAP, JUST LIKE I'M DOING RIGHT NOW.
OB: What is the problem? It says right here in your file that you were gestational diabetic Type 2A. It says it right there. You were on medication and everything. You were diabetic so we have to test you early now.
Me: I WAS NOT DIABETIC. EVER.
OB: Fine. I'm going to go look at your glucose test results and just see for myself.
OB: You know, I just looked at these test results. Your test results came back fine; you passed your glucose test. Did you know that you weren't diabetic?
(And here's where I really lost it): YES, I JUST SAID THAT. I WAS NOT DIABETIC!!
OB: Well then, why did they say you were? Why did they put you on medication for something you didn't have?
Me: Because they're paranoid freaks who wanted to find something wrong with me and settled on gestational diabetes, that's why! And I'm getting a little sick and tired of this crap and I'm not going to do it anymore!
OB: Now Abby, you know you can refuse any treatment. That's your decision. But we're really just looking out for your best interests and, of course, your baby's.

I nearly slapped her for that pathetic excuse for a guilt trip. These people constantly put me through the wringer for their own sense of satisfaction and then have the gall to act offended when I call them on the carpet for it. If they think I'm going through their Crazy House of Obstetrics again, they're out of their fricking crazy minds. I'd rather deliver on the front lawn of the hospital.

Oh, and this is fun, too. So they did the first trimester screening last week to determine the odds of having a baby with Down Syndrome, Trisomy 13 and Trisomy 18 (because at 32, I'm ancient). Fine. Tests results came back as my being at a higher risk for 13 and 18 than when I went in. But not terribly high, but higher (1/550 vs. 1/720). However, the risk of killing the baby via amnio to find out would be 1/300. Easy decision, right? This OB asked me repeatedly what I wanted to do, despite she herself saying my chances of having a baby with a chromosomal defect are incredibly slim and the risk of having the amnio to find out conclusively isn't worth risking the baby's life. And yet when I agreed, she didn't believe me. I told her that if this baby has even a chance of taking one breathe outside my body, I will give it that chance, period. I'm not going to abort. I will also not unnecessarily risk the life of the baby just to ease my mind a little, either. If the baby has major problems then there's nothing we can do about it anyway. "Yeah, but you'd at least get some warning." "Consider us warned. Thanks." She just wouldn't take it. I can only assume that she didn't like my expressionless, "heartless" approach to the problem. Did she expect me to burst into tears? Would it have solved the problem if I had? No. So what is her deal? Man, she bugs the hell out of me. Unfortunately, they all do.

Let's see what else I can whine about here.... Huh. Guess I'm plum out. I'm sure more will come later. I'll have to keep you updated. So I'll move on for now.

Only a couple of friends officially knew about my pregnancy early on, and their main job was to tell me if I looked pregnant that day or not. Stephanie was the best for this. At the ward dance she said, "You don't look pregnant at all (i.e. only incredibly fat!)! You should definitely wear that shirt to the Moms Night Out party this Wednesday!" I dutifully did as I was told, all the while thinking that this group of women has only thus far seen me wear my "More Cowbell" t-shirt and nothing else. I'm sure they think I own no clothes. Anyway, because she knew of The Secret That Apparently Wasn't Much of a Secret Due to My Ridiculously Ever-Expanding Size, she was also sworn to secrecy. This, despite the fact that she's a terrible, terrible liar. But she did her best and I appreciate it. You're free, Stephanie! Free!

And for all of my neighbors named Melissa who live three doors down from me, I would like to officially apologize on behalf of Stephanie and her enormously unconvincing lie when you asked her if I was pregnant four weeks ago. I assure you she made me pay for that, but not before pleading with the Lord to forgive her for deceiving you and everyone else in the room she lied to at the time. She has been torturing herself for my sake to the point of fearing for her very salvation, so I ask that you forgive her for her pathetic attempt at deception. And Stephanie, when the Judgment Day arrives, I will gladly step up to the Judgement Bar and take full responsibility for those false witnesses you bore. I'm only happy to. It's the least I can do in exchange for you never actually calling me "only fat and not pregnant," despite every opportunity I gave you to do so.

Can I pick the right friends or what?