Domino Effect

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

He was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Now, where was I?

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

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

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

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

That was my first mistake.

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

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

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

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

The kids' rooms were my second mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

Third mistake, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a band geek.  And I loved it.

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

Let's see...

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

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

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

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

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

The One-Inning Scream

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

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

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

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

Does it?

Requests From a Mommy Who's Ready to Pop

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

So, in no particular order....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


1. What is your favorite thing about summertime?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Risky Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But...maybe he's not married.

Or maybe he won't listen to reason.

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

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

Maybe "They" Were Right

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?  Of course.

But...then again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pool Fool

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

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

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

And I'm all too happy to comply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...the other side.

Blink.

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

Blink.  Blink.

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

Snicker.

Snicker snicker.

Umm...I think we found our problem.

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

At least, not any unauthorized holes.

Bitty tantrum avoided.  At least for a little while.

A Lesson in Privacy With Toddlers Around

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

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

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

Let's move on to my story.

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

That is to say, it no longer exists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me:  Don't you want to take a shower?

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

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

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

Me:  Come back here!

Him: ...

Me:  You little Imp!  Come here!

Him:  ...!!!

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

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

It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.

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

Fun times.

Au Naturel

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

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

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

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

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

What?  Really?  Me?

Yup.

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

So how did I come to this startling decision?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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