I love my husband. Truly. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have married him.

When XBoy was born, he turned into the best father, contrary to both our fears, and I loved him even more.

Now that XBoy is at that age where he reacts with teen aged flair, like pulling faces; or stomping around the house; or saying, “blah blah blah” after he’s been lectured, Mr. DD’s patience with him has waned considerably.

I’ll admit, so has mine. A two or three year old is a true joy compared to a child who can use logic and lie and work a TV remote better than you.

But the first week we were home with ZGirl, Mr. DD rode XBoy around like a sway-backed pony.

“Do this! Do that!” and then if XBoy didn’t do it or didn’t do it fast enough, Mr. DD would yell some more including the phrase, “Do as I’ve asked  you to do!”

I don’t know about you, but an order is not a request, and I’ve said as much to Mr. DD.

XBoy was initially excited to spend some time home with ZGirl and I and said he wanted to help me with her. By Wednesday, he preferred to go to daycare. It was a shame because when I needed something, all I had to do was say, “XBoy, would you help me with something, please?” He’d ask what, and I would then ask him to do XYZ.

Granted, I had to make sure he wasn’t watching Nickelodeon or some other mind-numbing crap (if I could have them pull Barn Yard, I would in a heartbeat, followed closely by Sponge Bob), but most of the time he did it without complaint.

I have reminded Mr. DD over and over again that XBoy has an emotional sensitivity similar to myself, and that he knows that when he yells at me I shut him out completely. I can’t tell you how many times when we were dating that I would turn my back on him, walk out the door, and drive away during an argument. I’ll gladly have a discussion, even a heated discussion, but start raising your voice?

That’s when the little voice in my head starts its sing-song, “You’re a douchebag. You’re a douchebag.”

Also, Mr. DD gets so frustrated with XBoy that he threatens him with the most inane punishments, “If you don’t have your shoes on by the time I get mine on, I’m leaving you home,” or more recently, in an exchange with me where he thought I was undermining his authority with XBoy (after I had XBoy go to the bathroom and then tuck him in for the night, he made him get back out of bed ten minutes later and to try to pee again in which I responded, “He just went.”), he said, “Then I’ll get him up every half hour every night.”

Yeah, right.

Lastly, since ZGirl’s exclusively nursing right now, Mr. DD’s responsibilities are to get up with her at night, change her diaper, and keep her settled until I can get situated. Five minutes – tops – is all he needs to commit at two or three times a night, while it can take ZGirl 45 – 60 minutes to finally decide she’s done for three or four hours. Yet, I’m the first to hear her fussing, so I have to wake him, to which he grumbles in his sleep, “What?!”

Cue, “You’re a douchebag, you’re a douchebag…”

I repeat: I love Mr. DD, but right now, that only means I love a douchebag.


Heather asked:

….what scent would you use to cover up your smell? As in, what perfume do you wear?

I rarely wear perfume, especially since becoming pregnant as the smell was just too overwhelming. When I do, it’s for special occasions or if I’m feeling particularly “pretty”. The last bottle of perfume I bought was Glamorous by Ralph Lauren. I don’t know if it necessarily is me, but I wouldn’t know how to pick a good bottle of perfume.

Mr. DD has never bought me perfume. I tried for years to get him to try cologne, including the CK-One rage a decade (or so?) ago. No such luck. Now I just appreciate it when he takes a shower and uses deodorant.

I know a couple of women at work who wear so much perfume that I can taste it in the back of my throat long after they’ve vacated the office, and I swear my MIL bathes in Chanel No. 5. Coincidentally all of these women are older so it must be their olfactory senses that have aged and gone to shit.

Christine, who must be quite bored, asked several questions:

How many places have you lived?
Who is your favorite relative and why?
Did you like middle school?
Chocolate or chewy candy?

I grew up in Small Town. Moved to Lincoln. Moved to Wichita. Moved to Omaha. Moved to Wichita. Moved to Lincoln. Moved back to Town Bigger Than Small Town, which is my current location. The back-and-forth prior to that was when I was teaching dance and I was asked to help open a couple of new studios and train staff. My move to my current location was done when I realized I wanted to finish my degree.

My fave relative is my oldest sister. She was my Matron of Honor in my wedding. She’d be ZGirl’s Godmother if it wasn’t for the fact that I don’t want her to have to lie to the priest and say she would raise her to be a good Catholic, when my sister is basically an Atheist. It’s amazing we’re related because she’s whip-smart, ambitious and at nearly 55, could kick my ass in anything athletically related.

Hated middle school. Hated high school. Hated school. Period. Class reunions? I’d rather roll around on a bed of tacks and jump into the Dead Sea.

Chocolate, please. The only kind of chocolate I will refuse is chocolate cheese cake. Cheese  and cake  should never be used together to describe one dessert.

Katrina, who admits to being a bit hungry when she asked,

What is (are) your favorite junk food(s)? Favorite pop (soda, cola, whatev’s)? Favorite kinda cake?

Little Debbie’s Anythings. I may tell you that a lot of my pregnancy weight was water, but I must admit that some of it may have been attributed to Little Debbie’s Nutty Bars.

Not sure why, but while “pop” is the Midwestern term for carbonated drinks, the word annoys me so I say “soda”. And to answer the question, Pepsi. As for a favorite kind of cake? How could I even chose? I can only eliminate anything with coconut or “cheese” in it from the list of cakes I would eat quite happily.

Midori wants to know more about my world travels:

…if you could go anywhere in the world with anyone, where/who would it be?!

I would love to travel to all of the Mediterranean countries as I am fascinated by ancient art and architecture. I would prefer to go with Mr. DD but he would be the worst companion for that kind of trip as he has no interest in anything “cultural”. Maybe in 30 years, my children will accompany me.

Betty gets philosophical:

Which fruit will you buy after you weigh her? (referencing my obsession with ZGirl’s weight/growth)

The nectarines have been particularly tasty this summer. That or plums. And believe me, I just might sneak her onto a scale and take a pix with my phone. That is, if I could leave the confines of my home.

Erin, my lovely friend from the South, asks:

I want to know what your favorite book and/or movie of all time has been, and why?

That’s a tuffy, actually. I will watch Shawshank Redemption  every time it’s on TV. I love, love, love My Fair Lady, which has everything to do with Audrey Hepburn. As for books? I hate to admit that all my reading material is mostly on-line via blogs, but I would highly recommend the book from last year’s beach vacation, “Water for Elephants“.

Enat. Dear, dear Enat…my younger, cuter, funnier Snark Sister is looking for shopping tips:

…how about telling me more about your antique store finds. I am remodeling our bathroom and need inspiration for a funky vanity.

Antique shopping in Nebraska is really a hit or miss. It’s best done at farmstead auctions and not via some shop. I find it funny what some people will pay for certain items that my Mom and Dad call “junk”, usually because they are still using it. Like this chicken catcher. Or old cream cans, of which we have a dozen or more in the barn filled with my Dad’s canceled checks from 50, 60 years ago. Right now, I only have a few small things here and there: black art deco glass salt and pepper shakers; a 6 gallon crock in perfect condition; a plaster stringer shaped like a kitten…antiques are the only “knick-knacks” you will find in my home.

By the way, Enat, I’m totally picturing something like this or this, if it’s for the bathroom I’m thinking of.

Cat wants to know,

What is your favorite dance?

Rumba. I still dance by myself when the mood catches, just to see if I remember.

Beagle gets to round up the questions with this:

About your past and/or future clay endeavors! I think you hinted at an interest and or past experience pottery, no?

I have a BS in Art. Raise your hands if you knew that. While the college wasn’t necessarily known for its arts program, I was lucky to be exposed to several kinds of mediums, including clay and a little porcelain. I also learned a little about raku, a particular process of finishing pottery, and as you can see from Beagle’s etsy shop, a specialty of hers.

When Mr. DD and I built this house, we set aside an area in the basement for when (or if) I ever get back on a pottery wheel. The time for it is ever looming in the future, and at this point I don’t know if it’ll ever happen. A hobby for when I become an elderly and more crotchety woman.

OK, time to get this SOB published. It’s taken me two whole days to get thing pounded out. I wonder how long it’ll take for me to tell you about Mr. DD’s recent (and hopefully – temporary) case of assholiness…


Is it too soon to reach a level of New Baby Neuroticism that makes me want to go grocery shopping just so I can put the baby on a fruit scale to see if she’s gaining weight?

And with an ironic twist to the above sentence, what would you like to know about me that is completely non-baby related? I don’t want to end up jumping the shark, blogging style, by writing about All Baby, All the Time.

I do plan on writing soon about how I’ve called my husband a douchebag no less then a thousand times in my head this past week. However, in a coin toss between an extended blog post and a shower, the shower won. Be thankful your screen is not scratch and sniff.


Things here have been relatively par for the course now that ZGirl is home. What exactly does that entail?

  • Utter exhaustion because I can’t seem to make myself sleep when she does (like right now), which has led to no less then two mini, teary breakdowns.
  • Limited quality time with XBoy, who besides allowing a few pictures of the two of them together, are rarely seen in the same room.
  • Times where I’d like to jack Mr. DD over the head with a blunt object.
  • Panic attacks when I wake three hours after putting ZGirl down to sleep and realized she hasn’t woke yet.

To be fair, each of those times are tempered by the fact I actually did it – brought home a baby and I don’t think it’s just been a dream.

I stare at her and I see a lot of XBoy’s infant features. I also try to imagine our donor and what she may have looked like. ZGirl’s ears are not her father’s. They are more swirly, more like an exotic sea shell. Her toes are like mine, in how they taper in length, but they will be longer, more graceful. I’ve already heard that she looks like me, and I didn’t feel defensive about it like I thought I might. Instead I just smiled back and accepted the compliment.

Mr. DD returns to work next week and I now can appreciate the necessity of a sling or a wrap, but still am overwhelmed with the options. I’m a little freaked out that it’ll just be the two of us even though Mr. DD has been of restricted assistance anyway due to the decision to give breastfeeding (I prefer the term “nursing”) a try, which has been relatively painless. At night we are trying a split of responsibilities where he gets up when she fusses to change diapers and soothe. If she remains fussy and roots, I then get up to nurse.

The only downside to that is even with earplugs in, I hear her little barks before he does, which means I’m up before AND after he’s asleep. See third bullet item above for how I feel about that.

So now I’m going to see how Murphy’s Law will affect me and get this published and go lie down. You can presume that ZGirl woke within 10 minutes.

Um….never mind. She’s up now. Later.


Friday morning during rounds, OB stated as long as I felt up to it and ZGirl checked out OK, I could be discharged. While the accommodations at the hospital have been adequate, I just wanted to be home. I showered, changed into the clothes I wore to the hospital (bumming myself out in the process that they “fit” just as niftily then as they did a week before), and vegged out and watched House Hunters long enough to wonder why anyone would ever want to purchase a 900sq ft condo in New York for 1.9M when a 900sq ft house here in Nebraska could be scooped up for as little as $25,000 depending on whether or not there are any bonus amenities like traffic lights located within city limits.

I didn’t realize that my discharge orders wouldn’t be written until some time after 5:00 pm. At least I didn’t have to pay for Friday’s room since I technically was not part of the hospital’s census, which means my butt wasn’t in their bed at midnight. Word to the wise, people.

I changed ZGirl into the pink outfit, one of the two I had brought along, the other being green. And waited. During my wait, the nursery nurse managed to freak me out a bit by mentioning that ZGirl’s bilirubin was at such-and-such levels and that Pediatrician would let me know more. Her levels were fine, but she did have bit of a yellow face, which has since cleared up.

Mr. DD showed up with XBoy and the carseat and we loaded her into it and walked out to the nurse’s station, only to be shooed back into my room by the Carseat Nazi. She took one look at my Kiddopotamus insert supporting ZGirl so nicely and declared in her most saccharine and patronizing voice that the carseat had not been crash tested with that particular insert and then proceeded to scare the shit out of me with what could happen.

I tried to bluff my way through and explain that the insert had been tested while at the same time lifting ZGirl back out of the seat. “Well, I can ask Soandso…” “Don’t bother. I’ve already got ZGirl out of the seat. I’ll just remove it and get her back in so we can go.”

Then I put ZGirl back in, tightened the NASA designed straps, and asked Mr. DD for the extra blanket to put around her head to keep it fairly upright. “No, I’m sorry,” said Carseat Nazi, “but the blanket can be loosened in a car crash and smother her if it fell over her face. Instead we can give you a couple of rolled up receiving blankets to put on either side of her head…” How the fuck that was any safer then either the insert or blanket was beyond me.

“No. It’s fine. Let’s just get going.” Mr. DD recognized my tone and we give each other The Look behind Carseat Nazi’s back. The Look that says, “Please don’t bitch slap the nurse here in public” and helped me into the wheel chair, put the carseat on my lap and headed towards the unit’s exit.

Carseat Nazi chirped along merrily and she took over the pushing at such a slow pace I wanted to jump out of the chair and sprint ahead – c-section be damned. We reached the car at which point she noticed my kankles and started with the assvice about that as well. I think while she was in the middle of congratulations and wishing us the best that I shut the car door in her face, smiled and waved good-bye.

Since then, I verified that the insert has been tested and passed carseat safety testing. Mr. DD said I should send her the info, but I’m not wasting any more time thinking about the incident then I already have. It was an example of one of my rarer moments of where I’d rather just suck it up then try to have my way.

Just look at how mature I am! I turn 39*, have a baby, and act like a big girl – all within a couple of weeks!


* 39 years old or in the general vicinity.


It was basically a tie between Summer and Shlomit as to who guessed the closest on ZGirl’s stats.

Summer guessed 7lbs 13oz and 20 inches (or 3.54kg and 51cm for my non-imperilist friends), which made her guess off by just a half an inch.

Shlomit guessed 7lbs 11oz and 20 1/2 inches (or 3.49kg and 52cm), which made her guess off by only 2 ounces.

I have Summer’s address, so Shlomit, if you want to send me yours, I’ll try to pop something in the mail before the next Spring’s thaw.

Thanks everyone for their guesses, however I have to wonder if you were paying attention to how I made reference that ZGirl’s donor must have surely been a descendent of Amazon warriors. On the other hand, I was flattered by your petite guesses of 6 lbs because then I knew you hadn’t been stumbled across pictures of me in full bloat.

By the way, today I had the staples from my surgery removed and while at the OBs I made a quick jump on the scale. Just between you and me and the world wide web, I’ve lost almost 30 lbs. That’s not bragging. That’s incredulous…water weight, much?


I honestly must confess that your comments are the only kind of baby shower anyone could ever hope for. To hear from so many that I haven’t in a while; and the self-proclaimed lurkers; and many I have stalked quietly and add that to you lovelies that willingly humour me routinely on my crappiest of days…Thank You doesn’t quite encapsulate my humble appreciation.

I promise that I’m not sitting around, baby-mooning and neglecting you. In fact, I’ve been dieing to get back on the computer but I have the most ridiculous excuse: my hands. Fortunately I’m enjoying the lovely effects of pain meds that make it tolerable. A good thing, too, because I have much to tell you, and none of it particularly interesting.

Wednesday morning as we prepared leave the house, I hugged XBoy and my mother who was going to stay with him until we called, and headed out the car. Of course, Mr. DD was gathering up things at the last minute (camera, wallet, sunglasses, etc.) and putzing around. As I sat in the car waiting for him, XBoy came out red in the face and teary. I opened the door and he practically fell into my lap. I assumed he had just hurt himself so I began the typical quizzing.

He hadn’t fallen down or smashed a finger or was denied candy by grandma (as if). Instead he was frantic for me not to go. The scene became so bad that Mr. DD had to carry him back into the house and grandma had to hold him back while we quickly backed out the garage and drove away.

It ripped my heart out of my chest…I’ll never forget that moment.

As far as any pre-op stuffity-stuff, all went fairly smooth. The only moment of tension was when the OB nurse warned me that the anesthesiologists have been adamant that the OB surgical cases come back already with a catheter inserted. She encouraged me to hold my ground and request the cath post-spinal.

Sure enough, the anesthetist’s nurse came in and tried to make me feel as if I was wasting their time by not agreeing to the cath before hand, but I didn’t give a shit. If I could get a pap with sedation, I would insist on that, too.

Jump ahead to me numbed and splayed on the OR table. Right before they allowed Mr. DD in, I began to cry. It wasn’t just the months of waiting, it was the years. All leading up to those next few minutes where I would finally meet this other child…which sounds so incredibly selfish, I realize. I felt overwhelmed and so helpless.

Mr. DD joined me and I saw the tears in his eyes as well.

I tried to memorize and file away each moment of the surgery. The anesthesiologist (who was actually very kind) narrated what was happening or what was going to happen. I remember being told that they had started the incision on the uterus and then suddenly I was told the baby’s head was out. I heard everyone exclaim over the amount of hair. I heard suctioning of nasal and oral passages. I heard the cries and suddenly someone said, “It’s a girl!”

And of course, I sobbed anew as my husband leaned over and kissed my forehead and he also cried some more.

We experienced for the first time her temperament as she went from typical newborn mewling and crying to all out banshee-like screaming. I was briefly introduced before she was handed back over to her Dad where I continued to blubber and sob (gotta love those hormones), and then I was stitched back up and taken to recovery while Mr. DD enjoyed those first precious moments.

Wednesday basically passed in a blur – strangely in slow motion – of snap shots, mental and digital, of ZGirl’s arrival.

OK, yes, maybe I have been baby-mooning just a bit. But there’s more to the past few days then these rare moments of peace. More on that later.


Just a quickie from me as I found out that the OB dept does indeed have wi-fi. Just the facts:

Born 12:47 p.m. via scheduled c-section.

7 pounds and 13 ounces

20 1/2 inches


We named her Hazel Anne: Hazel after my grandmother who died when my Mom was only three; and Anne is my Mom’s middle name and the name of one of Mr. DD’s favorite aunts who passed away a few years ago.

Here’s a picture. More later. I’m tired and my computer seems to be following suit.


Clover from Hidden Clover has graciously offered to update her blog with any immediate details, which I will text her with (maybe even a picture). Her blog is password protected so she will also stop by here and put in comments any information she is sent.

Clover and I go waaaayyyyyy back. She was the first SIF blog I read and she reached out to me knowing that our sad little genre covered those weird little gray areas of infertility after having children.

Thanks, Clover. Love ya, you cheeky monkey, you.


I started a rather serious post about how terrified I am right now: scared I’ll won’t bring home a baby – scared that I actually might.

Unfortunately, I just can’t spend a lot of time at a keyboard right now as each tap is like keying over shards of glass. That should also explain my limited commenting. That is, if you noticed.

Today I am supposed to finish up some preadmission bloodwork. Tomorrow I check in by 10:00 a.m. and if all goes well I will have my c-section at noon and meet Murdock. Sounds so simplistic, doesn’t it?

I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to update again. I suspect that I’ll be discharged by the weekend, barring any complications. Depending on how I feel, I might even be able to hijack a computer at the hospital since my laptop will be useless. And as I mentioned before, I will update via Twitter when I can.

As for the rest of my day, I will try to pack and work on convincing myself that I might actually be able to pull this off, this birthing a baby thing, without waking up and finding out that the past year has been nothing but an elaborate dream sequence of which the likes haven’t been seen since the TV show Dallas reincarnated Bobby (if you have no idea of what I’m referring to, I envy your youth). A year ago, I was recovering from my 4th miscarriage and my XXth Birthday, waiting for a donor match.

A million years ago…

A millisecond ago…


 No, no, not because if you give me a push I’ll tip over like one of those crazy punching toys that has had some air let out of them (I’d say weeble wobbles, but those lucky bastards wobble “but don’t fall down.” Me? I’d not only fall, but I’m fairly sure I would bounce at least once and not get up again), but because BIRDS seem to be out to get me.

Birds #1: Driving down the road a couple of birds were flying after each other. One hit my windshield (why I ducked, I have no idea – shut up). My husband looked behind us down the road and tried to assure me it flew away. I don’t know if I should believe him. I’ve seen my share of birds fly into the house windows, and that’s a stationary object, and usually it doesn’t bode well for the bird’s head.

Bird(s) #2: Went out to my backyard to try to figure out what the hell happened to my lovely tiger lilies that were thigh high with tons of buds on them just a few weeks ago. Now? Every. Single. Plant? Gone. Disappeared. Like they never existed! I thought maybe my husband mowed them over and then moved the yard ornament so I wouldn’t be able to tell, but no. Deer or gophers. I’m not sure, however either way, I’m pissed.

Oh, yeah, the birds. So as I was walking back up to the house, a small bird flew up out of the weeds and dropped back down a ways in front of me displaying a broken wing. Immediately I knew it was because I was very close to its nest. I looked around a bit and found the tiniest little nest, no more than a few inches across and four baby birds. If I had stepped on them, I would have had to throw away my crocs…gross!

Birds #3: Again, driving down the county road and I come up over a hill and there was a pheasant hen and one of her chicks trying to cross the road. No joke. Pheasants are notoriously dumb. That would mean that pheasant youth are really, REALLY dumb. Hen runs back into the ditch. Chick runs the opposite way, stops before reaching the safety of the ditch, and then heads back the other way. What am I doing? Slamming on my brakes on a gravel road to prevent myself from running over an animal that obviously doesn’t qualify under the heading, “Survival of the Fittest” within his community.

Are these signs of something coming, a “foreshadowing”? Or do you think I’m just building up to the time I’m outside and a bird eventually shits on my head – literally?

Postscript: Did you know that Tippi Hedron is the mother of Melanie Griffith?

Also, I highly recommend this youtube video, For The Birds, by Pixar (though I hate the sound editing which changed the voice of the big bird) (I tried to embed the video, but WordPress can be as fickle as Blogger at times).


At this point, the idea that I may have had to wait until at least the 25th – my actual due date – to deliver Murdock seems absolutely ludicrous.

If it wasn’t for next week’s scheduled c-section, I would not only have NOT given up using the riding lawn mower, I would have loaded up a suitcase or two and driven that sonofabitch to South Dakota this weekend.

Aside from the contractions I experienced a few weeks ago, I’ve only had what have been identified as “irritated muscles” by my OB. Trust me, it’s not just my muscles that are irritated. This morning I was trying to fish my contacts out of my case, except my fingers, which are nothing less than kielbasa sized, would not fit past the opening. Plus, even if I was able to get a pinch on a contact, I couldnt’ feel it. Cue helpless tears before finally getting contacts in.

XBoy has been quite a trooper. I especially appreciate his nimbleness. While I feel a deep guilt for asking him to pick up things I drop, he’s so damn cheery about it that I assuage my guilt a bit by thinking he must enjoy feeling useful to his blimp of a Mom.

I did catch him peeking under the frosted part of the shower door this a.m. I’m not sure if he was confirming what I have been telling him for ages and that is girls don’t have penises, or if he was checking for the unnatural eclipse of the recessed shower light.

A couple of weeks ago, I called one of my favorite photography places to get pictures taken of Murdock and XBoy for announcements (I know! …how presumptuous of me!). I told the girl who answered the phone I wanted newborn pictures. She informed me that the soonest opening was in September. Not sure about you, but Murdock won’t be a “newborn” in September. Mr. DD and I have decided to try to tackle this task ourselves. Frankly, I’m worried. Lots of camera toys and attachment a photographer does not make. For either of us.

Related to that, I asked OB what he thought of us bringing a camera into surgery. While he stated he has no problems with it, the hospital has a policy against it. I guess they are afraid of the chance there might be documentation of someone fucking up. No matter. We are bringing our small, pocket digital in with us. Actually, Mr. DD will be bringing it as I will be crucified to the table. It’s not that I want pictures of my uterus laying on top of my abdomen or anything as graphic, but I would like to have a picture of Murdock covered in cottage cheese and blood while being held up by his/her freakishly large head to put in my still yet to be purchased baby book.

Makes you almost want to be there, doesn’t it? You can be in a way if you have a Twitter account. I finally figured out how to tweet from my phone and since the hospital does not have wi-fi, (and even though cell phones are supposedly not allowed on the unit….like, seriously?), I will try to give some brief spurts of info through Twitter. You can either click on the link over there on the right if you don’t have an account, or if you “follow” me, you’ll get the info automatically.

I seriously am flattering myself thinking you care, aren’t I? Delusional or hormonal? You be the judge.

And with that, I suppose I will start a pool as a continuation of me believing you are invested enough to guess Murdock’s stats at birth:

  • sex
  • weight
  • length

I’ll put together a little prize package of some kind or another to send to the commenter with the closest guess. I promise it will contain either chocolate, liquor or a combination of both, as well as a plethora of foam peanuts or packaging pillows.

If you would rather not guess, your comments are always welcome.

(How’s that for comment whoring?!)


Sometimes a quickie is just more satisfying, isn’t it? OK, this won’t exactly be a “quickie”, but just like when your man makes that promise and then falls through, so will I. I’ll at least apologize for the lack of foreplay and post-cuddle.

Still looking for drawer pulls for the “new” dresser. Zandra, I loved the idea of the blue/transparent legos. Unfortunately, they need to be a bit bigger – like duplos – but duplo doesn’t make transparent pieces. We’ve been toying with using band buttons (like Green Day, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Johnny Cash, etc.), but we’re still open to ideas.

Here’s the first-dining room/then-den/currently-spare bedroom, before:


And after:

The colors don’t come across very well via a photograph, but there it is. The sofa is a sleeper and my dough trough is peeking out in the lower right corner and stores quite a bit of bedding. It still needs some minor touches, but you get the idea.

My sincerest thanks to Scissorbill for the crib bedding; to Portlairge for the night-time soother; and to Katrinafor a stack of goodies (pictured below) for Murdock (and a little sump’n-sump’n for XBoy).

I have two NSTs remaining. One this Thursday and another yet again next Monday, which seems a bit much, especially since Wednesday is the c-section (scheduled at noon, which means maybe by 3:00 p.m. or later…stupid ENT and orthopedic surgeons – hogging the OR).

My edema has reached maximum capacity in my feet. To give you an idea, if you are a closet croc wearer, you know how roomy they are. And normally they are for me, too. Except now when I put them on, not only are they a bit of a squeeze, but when I take them off it’s like my feet have been put through a play-doh fun factory and every croc hole, bump and indentation is clearly visible.

Sure, you can say, “keep your feet up”, but that’s not possible with an office job. Nothing shy of laying absolutely verticle and on my side helps with the swelling. Add to that the continued discomfort in my hands, which I’ve nearly grown accustomed to, especially the non-stop tingling that one normally experiences when a limb wakes up.

So yeah. It’s getting down to the wire and I don’t feel any more prepared for us to bring home a baby than I did seven months ago. I have to remind myself constantly that after next week, instead of *it* finally being over (it = pregnancy), we are only just starting over.

Just as I had hoped, even as I have feared.


Thanks for the Birthday Wishes, everyone. For those of you who saw the pwp post and were like, “pfft! not going to bother typing in that crazy-ass password for another crappy post…” you? Are a party pooper and I’m keeping track of your party-pooper-eyness. I’m squinting my evil eye at you Dino, Kath, and Cricket (and several others, but I don’t want to humiliate any more of you then I need to).

My husband gave me Milky Way candy bars, Riesen chocolates, and vacuumed.

Yes, vacuumed!! Plus, he even added the brush attachment to vacuum the baseboards!

*sigh* I think I wuv him.

You have time for a rant?

While “enjoying” my NST this morning (overstuffed recliners suck monkey-ass at 37 1/2 weeks pregnant), I read some letters to the editor in one of those pregnancy magazines about elective c-sections. Keep in mind that my c-section is actually considered “elective” when done as a repeat. Some hormonal bitch wrote this long, spewing letter on how c-sections result in 99% infant mortality rates, congenital rickets, vaginal warts, illiteracy, and ringworm (OK, not really, but she really was laying it on) whereas vaginal births produce babies who qualify for Mensa and mothers who never experience postpartum depression (again, I exaggerate…a little…).

In a perfect world, sure, I would have loved to have had a vaginal birth, but for those who keep shoving the preconception that c-sections are solely being done because certain egotistical women don’t want to stretch out their vaginas or want to plan around a dinner party really need to watch their judgemental mouths. I know there are risks, but my risk for this “elective” c-section is much less then if I tried a VBAC. And personally, my emergency c-section seven years ago was preferable over a dead baby. Call me crazy…

Plus? I’m not going to end up with a torn taint with stitches catching in my underwear like freakish wild hairs AND my vagina will remain as purty as it was 20 years ago, with or without kegls.

So there.