Just a Giggle

A good friend of mine and I were recounting the other day a funny experience I had while I was at VCU. It was one of those embarrassingly hilarious moments that has lived on, despite the fact that it still kinda makes me want to crawl under a table when I think about it.

I was sitting outside on a gorgeous spring day (probably skipping class) and had taken the opportunity to grab a hummus wrap from one of the local cafe's for lunch. My friend Reggie walked over and plopped down beside me and we started chatting about the weather, music, random stuff. While we were talking (and quite unbeknownst to me) a fly had landed on my wrap. I had just finished telling Reggie about how I was planning to go out and catch some music later that night. He nodded his head and then said, without any change of inflection, "..fly on your wrap."

Not, "hey- there's a..." to preface the last part, or even so much as a motion to swat it away. I've always reasoned that maybe if he had done either of those two things, I would have realized that what he was saying should be taken in the most literal sense. But Reggie is black. He's also an awesome musician {little bitty plug for Bon Iver here} ;-). I say that, not because it really matters (especially the race thing) but because it at least gives a bit of context.

Always one to try and keep up with the trends, in that moment, I just assumed that this was some new phrase akin to "that's cool," or "I dig" or whatever else jazz guys said. So, without breaking eye contact with him, I nodded my head and said, "yeah," in agreement. There was silence for about 5 seconds. By this point, I can only assume that the fly had had enough time to not only walk the entire surface area of my sandwich, but also barf on it a half-dosen times. Reggie shook his head, and repeated himself- this time overly-enunciating each word. "Kristin, THERE IS AN ACTUAL FLY ON YOUR WRAP." I looked down just in time to see it buzzing away.


Ohhh.


He burst out laughing, then playfully busted my chops for trying to be "down" as I frantically thought of a way to recover. But there wasn't any graceful way out of that one. It was out there. I was not only white, but white trying not to be white. As the day progressed, several of my other friends got wind of my new catch-phrase. Even months later, I would randomly find it scribbled on notepads around my apartment, and a few of my favorite people still like to give me a hard time about it.


Where am I going with this? I'm not really sure. I just like to laugh. Sometimes when things feel a little too heavy or serious, I look for levity where I can get it. I don't even mind others having a good laugh at my expense every once in a while- or at least, not in this instance. It's kinda funny to me too, that of all of the random memories of what feels like the lifetime ago I spent at VCU, this particular one consistently comes to the surface and never fails to make me giggle just a bit.


Some days, those giggles are what gets me through the day. ;-)

You Say Placenta, I Say "No Thank You."

I don't remember a lot about the first few minutes right after both Milo and Ella were born other than lying on the cold OR table shaking and trying not to throw up. But oddly enough, I do remember that my OB asked if I wanted to see the placenta.

Dude, did you not just hear me ask the anesthesiologist for more Zofran? Pretty sure I don't want to look at some slab of pulsating blood and tissue. But thanks for the offer, weirdo.

The thing is, it's probably not weird to some. The mere fact that he even asked must have meant that it wasn't such an outrageous request in his line of business. On the other end of the spectrum, I am of the "just show me the baby when he/she gets here" school. No, I don't want mirrors. No, I don't want to peek over the curtain as you slice open my abdominal wall. And I certainly don't want to see my placenta. I might get flamed for saying this, but I honestly thought I would view the birthing process differently after I had my own spawn. Bringing new life into the world in and of itself is a beautiful miracle. But witnessing the actual act of birth is not so much. There was fluid and poop and blood everywhere. The stench of rust and iron and other odors that I didn't want to try to identify was overpowering. If I weren't paralyzed from the waist down, I would have bolted out the door.

That's just me. I can't speak for the majority.

On the other hand, if you're an artist that is blessed with a strong stomach and a fascination for internal organs, I have GREAT news. You can now hand-stitch a placenta teddy bear for someone you love. Because who doesn't want to snuggle with crusty organ remnants? Watch out Build-A-Bear- there's some competition lurking.

I got intrigued about what other things people like to do with their after-births. I'm kinda sorry I started looking, but now it's too late and I don't want to be the only one sitting here with my mouth gaping open. So while I'm told that the teddy bear would make a great stocking stuffer, if it's not your bag, here are a few other options:

Make placenta art!!



Get a placenta facial!!



Plant a placenta tree!!





Want a late-night snack? Now you don't have to go to Wendy's to "eat great, even late." (Some people really swear by this as a mood regulator).




(I just threw up a little in my mouth).


The options are truly endless. Don't be afraid to experiment. Me? I'd just prefer to play with the actual children that were nourished by it. But you know, to each their own. ;-)

"What's That Smell??"

There are few things I find more disgusting than, say, pulling a sippy cup of old milk out from it's week-long hiatus under our sofa. But lucky me.... today's treat was a pile of dried puke in the corner of Milo's room (and it clearly wasn't from Milo). This is definitely another first. I guess I never thought I would just happen to stumble upon something like this, in part, because I'm usually pretty tuned in to Ella when she says her stomach hurts. Honestly, I figured if she did get sick, (if it wasn't all over me), then she would probably tell me or show me, or somehow I would just know.

Rewind to a few nights ago though and it makes sense: I brought Milo in to his room to feed him and put him down and told Jake that I smelled throw up. He came in the room, sniffed, looked at me and said, "you and that NOSE." Shook his head and left the room. I said, "it's called mom nose and it's quite accurate, thank you very much." I can tell the difference between teething poops, regular poops and dairy allergy poops, smell spit up from across the room, differentiate between a carrot and sweet potato stain on a shirt just by sniffing it, and of all things-- I know vomit when I smell it. Everyone does. It probably takes all of us back to our days in elementary school when some poor kid didn't make it to the bathroom and then the janitor whipped out that horrid orange stuff. Ugh.

So now, I'm stifling the urge to say, "I told you so!"- only slightly stronger than my urge to gag and run for the Lysol. She must have gotten sick while she was playing, then just moved on to something else. I never heard a word from her about it. She has told me that her tummy hurt over the last few days, but she also tells me this often at bedtime as a stall tactic, and has otherwise seemed fine. So for now, I'm just grateful I didn't have to fight going into my "stomach bug OC" mode because well, I didn't know about it. On another level, it's in some way reassuring to me to know that it wasn't even a big enough deal for her to say anything to me, even though I hate that she was sick and I didn't know.

So, lesson learned from my two year old (and one that I'm unfortunately dropping some bones to have to re-learn myself): Life is too fun to let a little puke ruin it.

"It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's...an Earthquake?"

So....there was an earthquake today. If this is news to you, it's quite likely that you can't see, hear or read. Or maybe 30 second periods of seismic shaking in your house is a regular occurrence (and I will refrain from going any further with that one). When it happened, I was just about to check out at Old Navy. It's funny to me that I have a tendency to jump to the worst conclusion in every other mundane circumstance, except the ones that aren't so mundane. (You know, like an earthquake). Instead, I stood there thinking up every other possible (but somewhat illogical) scenario for why I couldn't keep my balance. The following progression happened in about 8 seconds:

First:

"Dang, they've got some serious AC/ventilation system issues up in this place" (Plausible).

Then...

"Are we close to a railroad track?"

Then...

"Damn, this is one doozy of a panic attack...wait, why is everyone else reaching for their Xaanax too?"

Then...

"I bet it's a jet taking off. That's what it is."


Then...

"Nope, it's a helicopter. Definitely a helicopter. Some poor person is being medi-vacced from the roof of this Old Navy building."

Then....

"OMG it's the rapture. I must be getting ready to leave this earthly vessel behind!" (But can I take the suede ankle boots with me?)

Then...

Oh. Okay, it's an earthquake. Maybe I shouldn't be inside the building under these big box-things, hanging lights, and shelves. Off I go.


I looked around to see how everyone else was reacting. Some people were running to their cars. Some were huddled close together in doorways.

Others were so shaken up, they just stood there, frozen:




I rushed home to my babies- who were staying with Grammy- to find that they were both still sound asleep. Really?! I couldn't hope to sleep that good with a glass of wine and some Ambien. Then I came home to our house and couldn't believe what I saw in the kitchen...




That was it. The only sign in my house that an earthquake had actually occurred.


I make light of it, but in all seriousness, it could have been worse and I'm grateful there's been only minimal damage and no casualties. (And after this, I simply cannot imagine what the people in Haiti felt a couple of years ago). So, an eventful afternoon- to say the least- and another thing to add to the list of "Things I Would Rather Not Encounter, Ever Ever Again."

Inappropriate Lyrics

I truly thought I was pretty well versed in nursery rhymes and kiddie songs by this point. I mean, I literally fall asleep and wake up to lyrics of songs like, "Don't Bite Your Friends" and "The Poop Goes in the Potty". Somehow, I think they lack staying power (except in the darkest recesses of my brain, where I desperately want to tune them out). Catchy? Yes (unfortunately). True classics? Hell, no. Thankfully, when I was little, it was "You Are My Sunshine" and "Baa Baa Black Sheep." My mom and dad used to sing "You Are My Sunshine" to me just about every night while I was in the bathtub or right before bed. That was our song so it's always held a special place in my heart. Consequently, the first piece of artwork I bought for Milo's nursery in our new house was this:

I plan to buy the second part to that song and hang it at another spot in his room...

Such a simple, sweet little song. Melodically stable. Non-abrasive, calming and soothing. The perfect lullabye, really. So I thought that maybe I'd take it one step further and find prints for the rest of the lyrics, interspersing them throughout the room as a mini-theme for his nursery. But unbeknownst to me, there's a second (and third) verse to this old standby and after reading it, I realized perhaps there's a reason I never knew about it:

"The other nite, dear,
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and cried."

{Debbie Downer trombone sound effect here}

Yeah, that would make a great print to hang over his crib. On second thought, maybe a wall hanging of lyrics to "Poop Goes in the Potty" isn't so bad after all.

Anatomically IN-Correct

There are certain conversations you just never picture having with your kids until the moment that you actually have them. Luckily, we aren't having the "where do babies come from" talk for a good long while, but Jake and I are already arguing about who has (I mean "gets") to have that convo. These days, the questions revolve around body parts. In the last year, I've probably answered thousands of Ella's "wizzat?"("what's that?") questions. But lately, her "wizzats??" have been directed at certain anatomical features, forcing me to choose one of three options: 1). Shoot straight. Use the big words: The vagina and the penis (why did it feel weird to even type that?). 2. Use some slang. You know, the Va-Jay Jay and Mr. Wiggy (sounds like a porn gone horribly wrong). Or 3. I could pretend like I don't see what she's pointing to. "Wizzat Mommy??" {staring off into the opposite direction} "What's what? I don't see anything?"

Suffice it to say, #3 didn't pan out. Oh, but we are obsessed with body parts in this house. We have naked dance parties after bath-time (and by we, I mean those of us that are under 3 feet tall). Ella has, in fact, discovered that her little brother has something she doesn't. And her natural reaction, initially, was to want it too. The first time I explained to her that this little part that looked really cool and different belonged to him and only him and that no, she couldn't take it (more importantly, it's, um, attached) and that no, she couldn't grow one for herself, there was an all out crumple-to-the-floor meltdown about wanting her own "peanut." She begged for a peanut for a solid 20 minutes.

This is definitely one for the baby book.

{Cue Ella's first date in 14 years}: "Hi Ella's date ______, nice to meet you. Ya'll have fun at the movies. Oh Bug, you know what I was just thinking about earlier today...? Remember that time when you were helping mommy bathe Milo and you started crying because you wanted your own peanut? Gosh, you were so cute."


I. Can't. Wait.

Girl, Interrupted

I'm a very hard person to talk to on the phone these days. Most times, I resort to texting because at least I don't feel as bad when I get interrupted for the 11th time by a diaper blowout/impromptu dance party/meltdown over not going outside. Or in Milo's case, a painful gas bubble. Luckily, most of my friends are in the same exhasuted stage of life raising little people, so apologies are often not necessary. We all get it. Still, I look back fondly on the days when the phone would ring and I could have a normal thought process and free-flowing conversation without sounding like I suffer from Tourrette Syndrome:

"Hey! How was your-- STOP!! Don't touch that- yucky! Okay, sorry. So you had a good time?

. . . . . . .

"Yeah, we're gonna be there for a week in September and-- No, Mommy already said we're not going to the playground right now...the rates in Myrtle are so much better after Labor Day and it's much less--- HEY! Stop sitting on him- he can't breathe!!"


. . . . . . .

"Hi, I'd like to place an order for delivery please? Yes- I'll have one large-- omigod-Jake-she-just-ran-out-on-the-deck!-- pepperoni and mushroom pizza- wait, no! get in here right now, young lady. I'm so sorry. Yes, light on the sauce. Do you want to go to timeout? A side of cheesy bread. Thanks."

. . . . . . .

And so for obvious reasons, texting is my main method of communication these days, though that's not without it's flubs as well. But at least other people can get a good laugh at your expense. ;-)

The Art of the Shart.

Yep, I just said it.

During Milo's first month, it never failed that I would no sooner get a clean diaper on him than his little face would turn beet red and the "gas" that I thought he had already gotten out of his system decided to make another forceful exit- and bring some friends along for the ride. During most diaper changes, I was usually far too concerned with keeping his little man parts covered to consider that there was another "exit" down there that needed guarding. But I've discovered that diapers don't mean a thing, really, and just because parts are covered, doesn't mean you're safe. The other day, I was holding Milo over my shoulder trying to get him to burp. It should also be mentioned that I was sitting on the couch with a bath towel, draped only partially over me because I was halfway through my shower when he decided to start screaming. Since he's always been a bit of a gassy baby to begin with, I wasn't too surprised when he bunched his legs up and started grunting. But I will know better next time.

It took me half a second to realize that something warm and sticky was on my face. In my hair. On my nose and upper lip. In my EYE. Oh GOD, in my EYE.

And it's amazing what goes through your mind in the 2.5 seconds that follow a poop bomb that explodes in your face. After all, this is my own flesh and blood. This is my heart. But he just sharted in. my. face. And in that one instant, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Instead, I just sat there on the couch, paralyzed, afraid to move for fear that I would discover it in more places. And then I started to gag. People who know me well can attest that even though I have a strange and intense fear of throwing up, I hardly EVER do and I have a fairly strong gag reflex. But this nearly pushed me over the edge. In fact, I think I would have rather been thrown up on than this- and that's a BOLD statement coming from me.

So after another shower and a delicate attempt to put hand-sanitizer all over my face (hmmm...alcohol and eyeballs are never a good combo), I recovered. And he just grinned at me. He knew exactly what he'd done. But I think that I do, in fact, have the upper hand. When he comes to me 13 years from now and asks why he has to clean his room/go to school/go to bed early, I'll say, "because I'm your mother and I said so. And because you sharted in my face when you were 2 months old. So there."

The Gender-Defender Post

Ever meet those people that assume that when God created dogs, they were all female? I happen to know these people exist because I've heard them say, "hey there girl!" to my dog, sometimes within seconds of him cocking a leg over his favorite pee stone. I was never offended when this happened to our dog though. Stupefied, maybe, (considering my dog tried to hump everything with legs), but dogs are dogs and cats are cats. It's a different ball game altogether, though, with the tiny human I'm strolling around, whom I grew in my belly for 10 months. For the record, I did not create a unisex baby named Pat. So I would like to ask why, better yet HOW...someone's brain processes an oversized bow on the head of a baby (who also happens to be wearing a floral print shirt) and then proceeds to comment on how cute "he" looks or how badly they want to pinch "his" cheeks.

In the beginning, I tried to be gracious about it. It's a known fact that my daughter was an onion-head at birth. No hair to speak of, so no point in trying to pin little bows to her shiny bald head. Even so, I always thought she had very feminine features that made her look overwhelmingly like a girl, but given the gender-neutral car seat and gear, I tried to cut people some slack during those first few months. (This was a real feat considering my crazy post-partum hormones). I'm also not big on dressing my little girl in head-to-toe pink. I don't like anything frilly or lacy. I usually prefer to dress Ella in the same color palette that I would wear, perhaps with a few exceptions. I can see where this would also cause a bit of confusion so I gave the benefit of the doubt. But as Ella began to get older, she grew more hair. And out came the hair accessories. Then the weather got warmer and I stocked her closet with sundresses and baby- doll tops. I stood back and gazed at her closet and breathed a sigh of relief. I was convinced that we were officially past the "thank you very much but this is actually a girl" correction phase. Surely no one would ever mistake her for a little boy now.

Wrong again. So a few messages..

To the man at Subway who bent over and commented on the cute baby, I appreciate the compliment. I think she's cute too. And you could have left it at that. But unfortunately, when you asked her name and I responded with "Ella," and your next remark was "such a handsome lad," you left me no other choice but to think you're a complete dumbass. And that you teleported here from the 1930's. No one says "lad" anymore here in America, dude.

To the woman in Target who was too young and dressed far too hip to make a faux-pas such as this: did you not see the pink blanket with the daisy applique that was laying across her car seat? Do you also speed through red lights because you think they're green? I hear that color-blindness strikes one out of every five people. Stupidity strikes one out of every three. Good luck.


To the woman at the coffee shop who pointed and said "look at him lovin' on his mama..." did you see a penis poking out from under her skirt that I wasn't aware of? By the way, that sound you just heard was my jaw hitting the floor.



So a word to the wise: if there's any doubt in your mind at all about the gender of the little peanut in the shopping cart in front of you, perhaps it's best to simply smile and be on your way. However, if said peanut is wearing any type of bow, headband, hair accessory or has random splotches of pink in her outfit, you're 99.9% safe to assume it's a girl. It will make that mother's day, I promise.

Put the gun down and back away (Getting trigger happy at Babies R Us)

There is nothing that will evoke fear out of a grown man faster than when his bride-to-be or wife-with-child says, "honey, we need to register."  *Dun-dun-DUNNN*  Upon remember the painfully long 2 hours Jake and I spent at Bed Bath and Beyond to complete our wedding registry, I vowed that I would never do that to him- or myself- ever again.  So when it came time to register for all things baby, I took it upon myself to get the job done.  After all, he wasn't ever going to have an opinion on what color nursing pillow I register for.  And what does he care what kind of nipple we use?  In fact, when I found myself standing n front of the "wall o' nipples" at our local Babies R Us, I started to wonder what do I really care about what kind of nipple goes on our bottles? Nipples are nipples, right?

Wrong.  So wrong.  I have never heard a person talk about these little rubber sucking devices with such fervency as the sales associate did that day.  Holy mother of God.  Apparently it does matter, and there is in fact, something called nipple confusion.  So what did I do?  I got trigger happy.  I scanned anything and everything that looked like it might be "Top Rated" or "The Safest" or "BPA free" or "Less Colic."  I am convinced now more than ever that in America, we are paralyzed by options.  Go down the freakin' toothpaste aisle at your local Target and you'll see what I mean.  And if you think that's bad, go look at nipples at Babies R Us.  It's truly eye opening.

I realized that I had neither the time, energy or comfortable shoes to spend an hour in each aisle over analyzing baby products.  Luckily, I had done some online research of certain baby products and gear ahead of time, so I was able to move rather quickly through the process.  The bigger items like the travel system, pack-n-play and swing were checked off quickly as I had already determined which styles I wanted.  Surprisingly, the smaller items like bibs, washcloths and hooded towels proved to be more time consuming.  All the while, I'm thinking, they're going to get bodily fluids on them, why should I care so much whether they start off being mod or retro inspired?  However, registering for gender neutral items is not as easy as it might have once been, and I was constantly checking myself to make sure my choices didn't provide any clues as to baby's gender.  By the time I made it to toys, I was randomly scanning bugs that played musical tunes, farm animals with mirrors and shapes affixed to their bodies and anything else that looked worthy of drool and baby teeth marks.  It didn't matter.  Check and check.  

I have no idea what shape my registry is in right now and have only gone online since then just to make sure there were no duplicates of anything.  I walked out of Babies R Us that day and had no inclination whatsoever to look back.  I spent a relatively short amount of time with the scan gun, but this is not to say that I didn't put some thought into a lot of the selections.  It's just that at some point insanity encroaches, you find yourself wanting a chocolate chip bagel from the Panera next door and your feet are screaming obscenities at you.  When all is said and done, you leave with a whopping 157 things on your registry and think how the hell did that happen? 

I didn't look closely enough, but I'm guessing that at least 38 of those 157 items are nipples...

Really....snow??

Ever think about the end times?  Or wonder about the pandemonium that will ensue with the approach of the apocalypse?  I am here to tell you I have witnessed it.  It is Kroger here in Richmond the day before a snowstorm.  I kid you not.  I had no idea there was such a dire need to buy ingredients for pancakes when it's going to snow.  And toilet paper- in the event that you will need to poop 13 times in the next 2 days.

It happened yesterday.  Snow, that is.  Around 4 pm, the rain/freezing rain mixture that we affectionately label "winter" here, turned to this unusual white stuff and continued to fall- heavily- through the evening, overnight and well into morning.  The metro Richmond area awoke today to find about 8 inches of snow on the ground, after four + years of barely any accumulation to speak of.  *If you have lived in Richmond for the last decade or so, you might begin to convince yourself that these are blizzard conditions*  It hasn't helped that the last few months- actually make that years- have been nothing but false alarms, so much so that for the last 3 years, I have operated under the assumption that our local meteorologist has a bona-fide learning disability.  I should be so lucky to go to school so that I, too, can be wrong 80% of the time at my job and still get paid. 

That being said, this is one of the prettiest snows I've seen in a long time.  The word "breathtaking" comes to mind.  This is clearly what sets me apart from people who live in the northeast and Midwest, who are probably sick of this weather by now.  I'm sure if this were to hang around for a couple more weeks, I'd be way over it too.  I doubt I'll even go outside to play in it, although with my round belly and pasty whiteness, I might make for a decent snowman if I stood out in our front yard long enough (and maybe stuck a carrot out of my mouth).  Ironically, Jake left his snow boots up in Michigan with my parents over the holidays because we just *knew* that Richmond would never see snow again.  I have to admit, when it came time to take out the trash, I rather enjoyed watching him stumble around in my fur-trimmed platform wedge Payless special boots (complete with rhinestone buckles) because they were the only things tall enough to keep the snow out.  Good times.

So for now, I'll gladly take a day or two of mild cabin fever and enjoy the beautiful view from the comfort of my sofa.  It's a great excuse to have some coffee or hot chocolate, bake some cookies, spend an over-abundance of time online...oh, and clean like a mad woman (if you are the pregnant, nesting type like me). :-)

"In your dreams..."

       ....or perhaps, "how much crack did you smoke before going to sleep?" 

       I have officially entered the phase of pregnancy where a "good night's sleep" is becoming more of an oxymoron.  First, there is the configuration of pillows on either side of me and between my legs along with the sheer fact that I now wake myself up when I have to roll over. Once I do roll over, I realize I have to pee.  I walk to the bathroom in a sleepy stupor, do my thing, come back to bed and wrestle with my pillows for another 10 minutes before I fall asleep again, only to repeat in another 2-3 hours.  Now, one would assume that this is the most likely reason for the restless nights.  

        There's that.....but then there are my wild, beyond graphic, crack-infused, sometimes x-rated dreams.  Supposedly they really "kick in" during the third trimester but again, I find my pregnancy book to be incredibly ambiguous when listing these dreams as simply "vivid."  Let's put it this way: if I weren't pregnant and was having these dreams, I might be telling myself to lay off the pipe for awhile (if that was indeed the cause).  Here's a brief history of what the sandman has been bringing me over the past few weeks.

       If you are pregnant, have ever been pregnant, or have had friends who are pregnant, you are probably well aware that pregnancy dreams have a reputation all their own.   It all started in the second trimester, when literally, I would wake myself up after having had a very, um, detailed and explosive sexual escapade--so much so, that my body was literally gearing up for the big O as I was sleeping.  This was new territory for me, but apparently it's quite common with pregnancy.  *Now there's a pregnancy symptom that can stick around as far as I'm concerned.*  This happened on several occasions, as a matter of fact.  Sadly, I always woke myself up up before it got to the "good" part.  *Just a little disconcerting, to say the least*  So I would lie there horny and frustrated, knowing there was really no easy way to roll over, wake up my husband and ask him to "finish the job" he didn't even know he started.

       These are not quite as fun, but twice in the past week, I have dreamt that I could see the baby by looking down at my belly.  And not just as in, "oh, look at my baby bump"  I mean, "oh look- there's the head, there are the legs and feet...."  At one point, the baby pressed itself so hard into my belly, that I could see the indentation of it's little nose and eyes and lips.  At which point I began to casually lift up my shirt and point it out to random people as I was walking around.   *Freak.*  That's right, no sense of modesty on my part.  Later in the same dream, the baby started crying (keep in mind, it's still inside of me).  So I did what any other mother would do in my unique circumstance:  reached inside my belly, and rubbed the baby on the back until it fell asleep.  I don't remember how exactly my hand got in there, but I should be glad that I don't remember that part.  

        The other night, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling weird pressure *down there.*  So I pulled the covers back, and lo and behold, there was a head!  Acting as if this was the way I had planned to give birth, I reached down and pulled the baby out and laid it on my chest and everything was fine.  No pain, no blood, heck- no umbilical cord to cut either.  Done and done! I'm not sure where Jake was this whole time either-maybe he had run to get some hot water....(never have understood the urgency with which people in movies screamed to "get hot water!!" when a woman was about to give birth, by the way).  

        Probably the most bizarre of all dreams was last night's "midnight madness show," hosted again by yours truly.  Everywhere I went in my dream, people were doing walking handstands- I mean, this is how they were moving about, and of course, it was normal.  Well, "normal" that is, until they began to split in half.   One leg, torso and arm went one way, the other side went in a different direction.  (And keep in mind, everyone is still walking around on their hands).  But apparently, it became my job to put people back together, you know, matching up the correct bodies and making sure that everyone got the other leg, torso and body that was rightfully theirs.  *ummmm, what the??*  I woke up and immediately started laughing as I tried to explain this to Jake, who looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.  (Might be the same expression some of you have right now as you're reading this too).   

     Was it something I ate?  Was it something I saw on TV, or read in a magazine before falling asleep?  It certainly wasn't something I drank or smoked (I SWEAR).  Apparently, it's just pregnancy.  I've learned that pretty much anything abnormal that I experience (and let's be honest, there's nothing "normal" for 10+ months) from weird pains, to weird bumps, to *ahem* growing body parts (see previous post) and most especially, "vivid" dreams, can all be attributed to baby.  

     If I'm already having them now, I can only imagine the kind of dreams I'll be having in another two months.

Pelvic Prison...It Does Exist

     I had heard of bedrest, but "pelvic rest?"  I found out for myself two weeks ago what exactly that is when I had a minor bleeding incident *scariest incident I had faced in a long time, btw.* Apparently, this is when your pelvis should relax, take a vay-cay, sleep til 10:30 every morning, order roomservice, etc.  Oh yeah, and no sex.  No sex, no orgasms.  Notta.  In guy world, if a doctor were to tell them "no sex," it might bewilder them somewhat, yet they are still left with other means of being "happy."  If a doctor tells a woman, "no sex," we, essentially, are left with nothing.   Our significant others can't go near, and we certainly can't help ourselves out either. That's right, go ahead and take away the only fun that my pelvis has these days.  It's widening because in another four months, I get to pass a watermelon through it. It aches at night as I squirm around in bed with a configuration of pillows behind, in front, and between my legs.  It supports the growing weight of my unborn child, and doesn't even put up a fight when I can't fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans.  Virtually the only thing my pelvis has to look forward to is a little love.  I really think what my doctor meant to say was that I was officially on pelvis lockdown.   He sent it and my hoo-ha both to pelvic prison.   Nice.

     Of course, I was more than willing to oblige, given that I want to do everything in my power to make sure this baby stays put and bakes long enough.  I started thinking, what exactly does this little person feel as we're goin' to town?  I have to admit, in the beginning, I found myself thinking....what if  we get a little carried away, and he pokes it's little head and causes brain damage?  *What a gift, this imagination of mine*  But seriously.  I know it's got tons of padding and protection in there, regardless, it's bound to feel a little movin' and shakin.'  My OB explained that the female orgasm is incredibly good for the baby- it increases blood flow to the uterus and as the uterus contracts, it's almost as if it's feeling "hugs."  Great.   When our kid is old enough,  we'll simply tell him/her that they were conceived in love through a hug session. (Hey, that would have been a much nicer visual for me when my parents sat me down to tell me how I got here *gag*)  

     Bottom line: the pelvis is often overlooked and under-appreciated. It doesn't really receive it's due credit until it bears the weight of a growing human.   Perhaps pelvic prison is there to remind us that we don't know how good we have it until we "can't have it" anymore.