Take a breath...

...September is almost over! What a crazy month it is for us. Silas had his first day of school in August, then, before I knew what happened, he woke up as a six guy:




There were wishes to be made and cake to be eaten:



There were parties to be had at the water park:

We had our first soccer game:

(somewhere in between here, we had my fortymumblemumble birthday and eleventh wedding anniversary)

Then we were off to the beach for my auntie's wedding:

Where there were dogs who wear eyeshadow:

and little redheaded babies that make my ovaries ache:

Then off to play in the sand before coming home:

Now for a slight breather before starting the holiday rush.

and people wonder why I don't believe in god

I think we can all agree that this world needs all of the beauty and joy and happiness that it can get. Am I right?

How can anything or anyone justify or explain why such joy and beauty would be taken out of this world?

It's not right. It's just not right.

Go here and donate in her name. Perhaps it will help another family not have to endure this hell.

I tried to link to Heather's site for you, but I think we've crashed their server. Here's a link to a lovely memorial that Sam put up.

I'm not above using my feminine wiles

I was motoring down the road, minding my own business. Silas, still but a wee babe, was asleep in his carseat. I was approaching a stop light which had just turned yellow. We all know that yellow means "gun it!", so I sped through. Apparently, I hadn't sped quite fast enough. Lights and sirens in the mirror. I was stone cold busted, yo.

The officer comes to the window and takes my license and registration. He asks if I know why he pulled me over. Why? Why do they ask this? Are they hoping we'll confess to something they didn't notice? "Geez officer, I guess you pulled me over because of the twenty six kilos of black tar heroin in my spare tire, right?" I mean, really. So I give my stock answer (I get pulled over alot) which is "I'm sure you're going to tell me". So we go through the song and dance where he tells me that I ran the light, I pretend to be sorry, and he says he'll be right back. While waiting for him to finish whatever cop-ish things it is they do back in their car, I remembered that I had gotten a ticket in Virginia several months before. Then I had that moment. The one where the hot flash of "oh shit" runs straight through your heart. I never paid that ticket. *gulp*

Had it been long enough that they'd suspended my license? I didn't know. Then I saw him get out of the car. And reach around to get his handcuffs. Yep. It had been long enough. Thinking quick, I waited for him to approach the window again. He told me that there was a problem with my license and that I needed to step out of the vehicle. I asked what the problem was. He said that my license to drive in Virginia had been suspended and that my vehicle would be impounded. He said that I was welcome to call someone to pick me up, but that I would be left on the side of the road. (He didn't know that there was a baby in the truck at this point.)

Putting on my best indignant outraged persona, I assured him that I would never have let my license be suspended! The impudence that he would even suggest a thing is beyond insulting. I strongly suggested that he check again and make sure that if, in the unlikely event, this had actually occurred, that I had been properly notified of such suspension and that there was proof of such notification. Because I lived in a different state and if there wasn't proof...blah blah blahbitty blah. Basically I made a general ass of myself to buy a few minutes.

It worked and he went back to his cruiser. (I cannot say cruiser without thinking of Bruiser from Sha Na Na.) While he was reporting back to the station about what a pompous ass I was, I pulled Silas out of his car seat and woke him up. I know, reprehensible. BUT! I had a plan. I pulled up my shirt, ripped down my bra and freed the mammaries of magnificence! I covered one side with a blanket, but made sure to leave enough of the other exposed to make it clear what I was doing. When he came back, I rolled the window down and looked at him expectantly. Like I just knew he had cleared this whole misunderstanding up. He started to tell me that procedure had been followed and that WHOA! Wait a minute! Is that a breast?! And a baby??

He turned ten shades of red and stammered so much I couldn't make out the rest of the sentence. After taking a minute to compose himself, he informed me that yes, procedure had been followed and he was well within the law to impound my vehicle. (I'm sitting there making doe eyes at him with my breasts hanging out feeding a baby on the side of the road.) But, since there may have been extenuating circumstances because of my living out of state, I was free to go but make sure to get that taken care of, ok now ma'am? (He hasn't even looked toward the vehicle once during this spiel) He hems and haws a bit more and finally tells me to be on my way, "after yer done there, a'course".

So yes, I exploited my baby and my breasts. And I'd probably do it again if I thought it would get me out trouble. (Gloria Ste!nems head just exploded)

Just get out, already!

Does anyone else like to pressure wash as much as I do? Can anyone else possibly find it as cathartic, even therapeutic, as I do? I have washed the entire front deck, most of the pool deck, the privacy fence around the pool, and am taking orders. Need something washed? I'm your woman. I'm sure the neighbors are ready to kill me, though. (Hi, neighbor! I'll be done soon. Got anything you want washed?)

Anyway, this is supposed to be for Sam (www.temporarilyme.com). She's about six months past due and Karen Surgarpants is kind enough to host a bloggy shower to share late baby stories. What? Trust me, it feels like six months to her. (Hi Sam! Hope you're holding a wee biddy babe by now!)

I don't have much to contribute from the first two. The Dude was my first child. I was eighteen, and I knew everything. Except what labor felt like. Did not know that a backache could be considered labor. Long story short, got to the hospital twenty minutes before he was born. On his due date. Snore.

Now Lucy Apples is a bit more interesting. I had a doctor's appointment the first week of July. They did a sonogram and told me they had the dates wrong, that I wasn't due until the end of August, she was just too small. I alternated between rage and despondency. I was sooooo sick and soooo hot. I simply couldn't last another month. (This was the kind of abnormal "morning" sickness that can kill you and the baby) (And almost did) Because I thought I had another two years months, I thought it was false labor, when, in the third week of July, I felt contractions. Plus, I really wanted to get my hair done and it was almost time for my appointment . Cutting to the end, 6 lbs 3 oz, born in the hallway of the hospital. And yeah, they did still try to charge me for the delivery room, even though I never saw the inside of it.

SweetieDarling was the problem child. An uneventful first two trimesters led to the horror of the third. I'm only 5' tall. This child was giant. There simply wasn't room in there for her. She compressed everything. I couldn't breathe, walk, sleep, eat, or move. The week she was due, I tried it all. Driving down a bumpy road fast, jumping jacks (highly entertaining for anyone watching, I'm sure), and anything else you can possibly think of. Finally, I couldn't take anymore. I called my doctor, at home, at 5 pm on a Saturday night. I made threats I don't care to repeat in polite company. He met me at the hospital at 7 (I was kind enough to let him finish his dinner) and broke my water. One hour later we started pitocin and she was born at two minutes before midnight. She was a toddler. 24" long, 10 lbs, 14oz. See, I told you there wasn't any room!

You can find the story of Piglet's birth here. He was early, no waiting involved.

I hope Sam has an easy labor and birth. She certainly deserves it after waiting this long!

What happened after I got pregnant or Part II: The Birth

First, let me point out my fantastic new header. Thanks to Ree who was kind enough to offer her design services as a contest prize and to Moo who graciously awarded me her prize when I was the first to sulk and pout express my dismay at not winning. Thank you ladies for dressing me up.
I do believe I'll tell the story of Piglet's birth today. And I've decided that I need a new internet name for Piglet. Because? If he's a piglet, guess what I am. Yep, a sow. So, his name will be changing quite soon.
You can read Part I, How I got pregnant here.
Piglet was my fourth birth. So this wasn't my first time at the rodeo. I had my previous three naturally, with no medical interference except for pitocin because I'm always in a rush, can you hurry this up? I need to get to Target. Don't mistake my lack of pharmaceuticals for bravery. I chose natural because I've seen those epidural needles, and NOthankyouverymuch. With each of my previous three, my water broke at the hospital, so I had not had the pleasure of that surprise. Piglet's due date was September 13, which is my birthday (I'll wait while you mark your calendars) and also our wedding anniversary. How cosmic would it have been for him to be born on that day? So, of course, my water broke on the 3rd.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that when I felt that initial "POP", I was a smidge alarmed. But when I went to change and saw the bright red blood, I was skeered. Not merely scared. Skeered. Thankfully, it was a Wednesday evening and the husband (who in the interest of decency and blog ratings hasn't been given a name yet) was home. Out of the bathroom I came, and out the door I went, with a "Let's go, NOW!" tossed over my shoulder. The entire forty minute drive to the hospital, I'm convinced my baby is suffocating, that the blood means placental abruption.

We arrive at the hospital and proceed directly to L&D. Where we are greeted with a surly, "why didn't you come in through emergency?" So I'm taken into the room you go in before you're given a room and a very nice nurse gets me situated. I beg her to find his heartbeat. Just make sure he's ok. Have I mentioned that I have an intense dislike for being scared (or skeered)? It makes me grumpy. So she ushers us off into our room, where she can hook up a fetal monitor. Why don't medical personnel listen to the person who knows the most about the patient ie: themselves? I have the utmost respect for the medical profession, but, much like it has in law, it appears common sense and logic have gone out the window. I told the nurse I was carrying high. I told her the baby was under my right ribcage. I showed her where his tiny hiney was poking out. She checks everywhere on my torso for his heartbeat. No dear, I don't think you're going to find it in my KIDNEYS! She gets two other nurses. By this time I'm near hysteria. I'm convinced he's in distress and they're playing with their stethoscopes. Finally, one of them checks, wait for it...right! Under my ribcage. What a blessed relief it was to know he was ok.

Finally, a doctor stops by. Out of eight doctors in the practice, I pulled the only one I don't like. And by don't like, I mean despise with every fiber of my being. He shall be referred to as Dr. Toadyhead for obvious reasons. Since my water broke, they don't want me to walk (risk of infection). Because I'm only two centimeters, they can't use the internal monitor so I'm tethered to the bed. Out comes the pitocin.

I tell my new labor nurse, who I love with all of my heart and will be my BFF forever, that I tend to go quick and she may want to get the baby stuff ready. Oh, pshaw! she says. You're only three centimeters. Trust me, I says. And break the bed down, while you're at it. She pooh-poohed me again and went about her business. Twenty minutes later, I told her, very kindly, that this baby would be here in twenty more minutes, tops, and she better get hoppin'. So she agreed to get the nursery to ready the bassinet and she broke the bed into the stirrups, but only to indulge me, you know. Because obviously, I'm insane. She is NOT my bff anymore.

Ten minutes later I asked her if she was going to get the doctor, or did she want to deliver him? I think because I have been very quiet, because I have gone to my inner sanctuary to escape these brutal contractions that are tearing me apart, she doesn't realize that I am indeed laboring to bring this child through. I ask her to turn the pitocin off, the contractions are too much, too hard, too brutal. She does. I turn from my side, and I tell my husband to catch the baby. To his credit, he does. She should have listened to me. From water break to delivery: 5 hours, 10 minutes.

It was after his birth that all hell broke loose. That's a whole nother post.

The 10th time's a charm or How I got pregnant

Well, see, when a man and a woman love each other, they hug and kiss and....

No really, my first three children were born when I was too young and dumb to deserve them, but I had them none the less. I didn't appreciate them for the true gifts they were and subsequently missed a good deal of their childhoods. Thank the stars for grandmothers. While my own mother sorely lacked in several areas of motherhood, she excelled at grand motherhood.

After meeting and marrying Him, and settling into domestic bliss (I can't even type that without rolling my eyes) he decided (cue ominous music) it was TIME. For him to be have a child. I pointed to the three currently sitting slack jawed and bug eyed staring at the idiot box. Oh, those were fine, he says, but he wants a baybee. A widdle, itty bitty, baaybeee. In all fairness, he had been upfront from our first date (??) about wanting to have a child. When we married,the Dude was 11, Apples 9, SweetieDarling 6. He was only 23 himself to my 28. I thought he'd get over it. I was Wrong.

I had my tubes tied after SweetieDarling because? I was done. with the childrens. My uterus was closed for business. Shut off the nursery, but the playground's still open. So I thought maybe the $15,000 it would cost to reverse the ligation would deter him. Wrong. Again.

So we consulted with the fertility doctor and scheduled the surgery. I was in NO WAY prepared for what that meant. Sure, I was told it was a six hour surgery and that I would be hospitalized overnight. I was told it was a six week recovery. But being told that and getting sliced open hipbone to hipbone are two different things.

After the surgery and the hideous, horrible recovery...btw, any of you out there who've had a C-Section? Huzzah's to ya girlfriend. Recovering from that and having a newborn? Good grief, I can't imagine.

After I recovered, we began to actively try to get pregnant. Which meant sex every two days. Why not every day? every man in the world asks. Because you have to let the sperm rest and regroup for a day. So on the second cycle, success! When you have a tubal reversed, you are monitored very closely because ectopic pregnancies are more common. So, at three days late, you are summoned to the lab for vial after vial of blood withdrawal. Levels of this and levels of that are checked and then the doctor will call and tell you that you are indeed pregnant. What said doctor does not tell you is what he means when he says "don't have a party yet". Look, either I'm pregnant or I'm not. Even I know you can't be a little bit pregnant. Well, poppets, apparently, you can.

Not knowing what the cryptic message meant, we go off for a celebratory weekend. A baby, whee! This is fun. I had never had a baby with someone who wanted to have a baby before. The first three's father (yes, just one) was reluctant, to say the least. And here I was, all growed up and married, and having a baby. Until I wasn't. Having a baby, that is.

What the doctor didn't tell me was that my baby growing levels were low and that I would probably miscarry. That would have been handy information to have. I had never had any problem carrying a pregnancy before (obviously). This was just a fluke, if we weren't monitoring so closely, it would have just been a late period. So, we keep trying.

And we keep getting pregnant. And we keep miscarrying. We never last long enough to get a heartbeat. I still don't know if that is a good thing or not. We have genetic testing done. I tell Him that his low class DNA just won't mix with my fancy stuff. I'm only partially kidding. Our DNA is fine. I'm fine, he's fine, we're all fine except for the NINE babies we've lost.

So we quit trying. and caring. I didn't want any dumb baby in the first place. You know they're pains in the ass, right? And all those little tramps out there who don't want or deserve their babies and don't know how good they've got it? They can just kiss my non baby carrying ass. And the smug asshats who oh so kindly offer that "they'd be happy to carry a baby for me", all the while feeling just a little superior to be able to offer? I hope they die a thousand deaths being ripped apart by the hounds of hell. Angry? Me? What gives you that idea?

So I go about my business, fat, dumb and happy. I go to my office and take my anger out on my staff do my work, and you know? I've got like killer heartburn. I really think all this stress gave me an ulcer. Great. More joy. Finally, I can't take it anymore. Off to urgent care I go. Just give me some antacid, make sure my ulcer isn't eating through my intestines and send me home.

My ulcer? He was born September 3, 2003.