A New Take on Yankee Candles

Christmas break: "I'm going to relaunch my blog" January: "I'm going to pay for a second child by selling LuLaRoe" February: "I'm going to...lose 15 pounds, teach 43 kids how to read daily, keep up with all the paperwork/data being a teacher requires, run a successful side business, be a good wife, raise a toddler, feed the dog at least every other day, shave my legs once in a blue moon, relaunch my blog, and start saving for a second child by selling clothes everyday" April: "So, Rudy, I'm feeding you because I honestly can not tell you the last time I saw actual edible food in your bowl. Also, what's the calorie count in a container of Puffs? Because I'm pretty sure that's what I fed Luke for dinner tonight.

This is real life. I can't keep up with my surroundings, much less find the time to write about it.

For those of you who are new, WELCOME! I'm Kristin. I'm 30--something. One, maybe? I'm a 5th grade teacher, LuLaRoe retailer, wife of a police officer, and mama to a one-year-old. I started this blog over three years ago right after I experienced my first miscarriage. Fast forward three years and four miscarriages, I managed to blog my way through my entire In Vitro Fertilization journey in order to get the aforementioned Luke Peebles. All of my posts are archived, so feel free to backtrack and catch up. In a nutshell, it was mostly about my cookie, exaggerated whining, and general frustrations during gynecological visits. Good times. 

I'm currently seriously struggling with the decision to start the process for a second child. Being as I have zero fallopian tubes, the only way I can ever conceive and carry a baby is through IVF. Basically, unless Mike's sperm can re enact the ending to every action movie ever made and do some crazy, slow-motion jump from the end of my egg to my uterus, there's no way for it to happen for us until we fork over some ungodly amount of money for a doctor to hand deliver our frozen (and thawed!) embryo to my cozy, Yankee Candle "Home Sweet Home" smelling girly parts. It worked for Luke, obviously, so duh! of course his home of 39 weeks smelled appealing and not, uterusy. For so long I wanted three children so I could be surrounded by a huge family once they all had their own kids. Take into account the "Disney Theory", meaning, every Disney movie I watched as a kid had the main character's parents/parent die but it was okay, because they always had siblings around to help them make their dreams come true. Then take into account Belle, an only child, who lived a horrible life with a monster while her father was locked away and random dirty dishes kept her entertained so how stable was she, really? Scary thought. Anyway, I think about the future and don't want Luke to be alone to remember all of the weirdness that was his parents.

This has been weighing heavily on my mind recently, as we are in open enrollment for group insurance now. I carry myself and Luke, am also a fully-employed, tax-paying citizen, so of course my premium is jumping through the roof. Nothing, NOTH-ING grinds my gears more than going into my doctor's office and seeing/hearing so many other patients not having to pay a dime for whatever they need and me over there, sacrificing my monthly Clinique budget just to pay a copay. My oily, giant pores do not appreciate you, outrageous insurance companies! It's just not right. And to think by having a second child, everything is going to double. What kind of world are we living in?!

Here's what's new with me: TMJ aka, temporomandibular joint pain, aka, "my jaw hurts". (My life can be described as a series of abbreviations. "KTP BS IVF TMJ NBC CBS ESPN") Do you ever have weird dreams? Of course you do. Mine are usually about teeth. You may recall my 2010 blog mylovelybrokenface.blogspot.com that tells the tale of me having braces as an adult and living through jaw surgery. (Wait, so I have two blogs literally about me from one opening end to the other?! Yikes.) Ever since having both my upper and lower jaws broken and adjusted due to an underbite, I've worn my retainers at night like the quirky, 13-year-old adolescent I am. I dream all the time though about them moving, my teeth falling out, my jaws moving, etc. (When Googled--instead of asking my dentist like a regular person--I've found that it's my subconscious telling me I can't "sink my teeth into" a certain situation. How insightful, Dearest Google.

Over Spring Break, I woke up one morning and my jaws wouldn't budge. Like, I couldn't yawn, chew, yell. It was scary. Scary painful. Luckily, I had a dentist appointment (with a real live person) two days later and come to find out, it's TMJ pain from me clenching my teeth at night--all due to stress. I'd been having neck soreness (also due to stress) and apparently, it crept its way up my face. Nice. The solution? Muscle relaxers to take as needed and for every night.

One can simply say, while I can easily down any type of edible item that is classified as a carbohydrate in massive quantities, I can not hold onto the following things: alcohol, pain killers, and dignity when around any sort of male with any type of moderate attractiveness (i.e.-the Justin Timberlake calamity of 1998). The first time I took a pill, I slept on the sofa for two and a half hours and then moved to the bed to catch 12 more hours of uninterrupted Z's. The next day, I started to giggle 15 minutes post-pill (and didn't stop until 15 minutes before the next pill the next day) Two weeks later, I pop one and it's a sense of calm I haven't felt since Wendy's brought back the Taco Salad last summer (Can I get an 'amen'?). Somebody at work said recently, "you sure are smiling an awful lot" ...MAYBE BECAUSE, I CAN'T FEEL MY FACE WHEN I'M WITH YOU...is what I'm secretly singing off-key in my brain.

My jaw hurt is gone. I'm sleeping like a newborn baby who doesn't get woken up to be fed every 2 hours like they're supposed to be so instead the parents can sleep just a tad bit longer and oh well, who needs to eat that often anyway, I'm not raising a tubby. (Sorry-flashback to Day 4 of "Baby Peebles Comes Home") My neck pain is gone. I'm basically a delightful, grinny, blob of jelly bones sharing all that sunshine with whomever I come in contact with. For now, all the worries I have about "DO WE" or "DON'T WE" will have to take the back burner. I've fed the dog. Luke is functioning. The "lose 15 pounds" is going well; if you consider the "going well" part gaining two pounds. My kids at school can read and I'm selling clothes. Plus, I'm publishing this post. I'd say I'm pretty much nailing it.

Pack of Lies

I've been keeping a list this past year of all things, "mommy". Not so much things I've learned, but situations and opinions I have on so many things that are baby-related. Before I tackle that monstrosity, I'd like to talk about me for just a few minutes. Let's face it, it's after bedtime, I just finished washing 18 sippy cups after tearing the house apart looking for the remote AND the dog's half-full water bowl...one of which was behind the toilet and the other was in the back of the toddler-sized Batmobile's compartment in our living room...so why not focus on me for a change?

Side note: I hope the Batmobile is resistant to hydroplaning because it is currently in standing water.

My body has taken a toll in the last year. Not only did I give birth, but in the same week, I turned thirty. One of my best friends warned me that things were going to be downhill after that and no truer words have been spoken since. It's a wonder that I haven't woken Mike up every single morning because when I move to get out of bed, my bones popping literally sound like an amateur backyard firework show. 

I've actually lost about thirty-five pounds which is all the baby weight I gained. BUT, I really don't believe the fat has left my body. It's just shifted. I got a ton of new underwear for Christmas. It was on the top of my list because I refused to enter 2017 in Blanche Devereux's draws. I may sound like a Golden Girl when I wake up but I don't have to dress like one. Anyway, my underwear is really cute, but because of the new hips that have settled onto the outside of my body, they literally eat them when I sit down. I have to move side to side and awkwardly adjust moments after sitting because if not, I feel the lace in crevices that shouldn't even be allowed to be crevices. All the HIPPA paperwork at the OB's office should legally be changed to "HIPPO", because that's what you're signing your midsection away to look like, ladies. FOR-EV-ER. 

Moving on. Oh, my precious, glorious, breast-feeding boobs! Wherefore art thou? Somebody get Sherlock on the phone because I got a case for him. I'm left with nothing now but...remnants. No one would believe the cleavage I had around 5-week post-partum. I wanted to document them because I wasn't sure if they'd last so I took pictures. Purely scientific, non-sexting related pictures. I needed them to be able to look back and bask in the glory. Clearly, sixteen months later, I've accepted that twenty-five of my lost thirty-five pounds was boob fat. In addition to the Christmas panties, I asked for new bras because I was tired of all the extra padding getting in my way with my old ones. I was fitted and discovered I had gone from a 40-C (with my cups overflow-ething) to a 36 B. As in, A, BEEEEE, C, D. Yeah, THAT one. I asked for the super-padded, super-lifting, super-push-up. Basically a $50 boob job wrapped in a pink shopping bag. I opened the bag on Christmas morning, rushed to change into it, and suddenly realized that all the excitement was a pack of lies. There was no promised cleavage. As a matter of fact, I pulled a shoulder muscle (does that even exist?) trying to squeeze them together to even get them to touch. Get out of my face, Victoria, with your secrets, lies, and false advertisements!

I recently discovered that I'm related to gaming legends, Mario & Luigi. There can be no other explanation for the giant, black mustache that has taken over my face after giving birth. I didn't even accept this until my waxer had just finished with my brows and said, "Lip too, right?" Um, excuse me? Why would you need to do that? **Shows me my face in a mirror that was created for legally blind people** OH. That's why you suggested that. Because my body is rejecting that I'm a woman after the torture I put it through and is slowly turning me into a 50-year-old Italian man. I had my lip waxed. My face broke out into hive-like, red welts, FOR DAYS. So no more waxing. I just buy high-powered primer, concealer, foundation, and powder to keep that delightful accessory to myself. 

Aside from these things, and also that one time when I Googled, "Bosley Hair Replacement for Men" when I thought the hair I lost during pregnancy was never coming back, I'm trying to adjust to my new body. There's a fine line between feeling confident and feeling cocky about yourself and how I feel is currently toward the end of the spectrum fondly recognized as, "Okay-ish". Like so many of the other things I'm slowly adjusting myself to in my new mother role, how I feel about me is something that is taking a while to dig into. Much like my underwear digging into me at any given moment of movement.

My LuLa WHY

Can I just tell you about my kid for a second? We have a sectional sofa in the living room which is reeeeally hard to move. Luke has figured out that if you throw things in the little space between the wall and the sofa, it disappears and probably travels to the magical place in the dryer called "SOCK PLANET" or wherever it is that the 982,3749 bobby pins I've used since I was 16 are. He decided to unload his diapers in the little diaper caddy I have them in and drop them one by one behind the sofa. All the while, looking at me. He knows with every short "lift" of his arm, I get closer and closer to him because he knows what's coming. The arm lifts, the grin cracks his chubby little face, and BAM! he drops the diaper. I fuss, use the God-forsaken word "NO" about 18 times, and move him away. I go back to typing. I look, he's back on the sofa, standing, holding a diaper over the empty space. Again. The arm lifts, the grin cracks his chubby little face...I say, "Don't you EVEN THINK ABOUT IT"...and BAM! Down goes the diaper.

We've popped his rear, we've done time out. He's only one but he knows exactly what he's doing. All I can think is, "I WILL beat you one day, I WILL beat you one day". Then sounds a voice from across the room, the ever-present father who has watched the mother all but lose. her. shit. over a diaper drop...and it says, "YOU WANTED THIS!" And I can't utter a word--because he's SO right.

At what point does the urge to have another child kick in? We originally said we'd try for a second as soon as we could, preferably around Luke's birthday (September). But it's now...January. I've talked to sooo many parents about this. I've talked to the parents of only-children. I've talked to the parents of 2, 3, even 4 kids. Yet I'm so unsettled by it. The people I've mentioned to that 'I'm really happy with just one' have looked at me like I've grown a second head. They can't comprehend it. I'm all like, "before he turned into the 'I'm going to press every single button you ever THOUGHT about having' child, having one has been just delightful". I had an easy pregnancy. We transitioned from phase to phase in the first year with no problems and Luke is perfectly healthy.

Having gone months now with putting so much thought and discussion into this, Mike and I have boiled this down to two hangups. The first one is...nothing, and I mean NOTHING, hurt me as badly when I was going through miscarriage after miscarriage and then through IVF, as people who already had a child complaining about how difficult it was to have a second. For years, I just wanted one. Just one! To hear people publicly talking about their struggle for a second or third was pure torture. I could not fathom how they could be so selfish about the second when they already had what I craved for. Why couldn't they just be happy with what they had?! This is something I'm struggling with now...the fact that I'll be putting a ton of work into getting a second baby when I already have what I prayed for. And so many are still out there praying for a Luke. It sucks.

The second thing is...the money. Guys, IVF isn't hundreds. It's THOUSANDS. Plural. Lots of them. Granted, we've done the biggest part and most costly of the procedure, but in order to do it again, I'd have to pay for the embryo transfer, the medicines and shots I have to take a month in advance, plus all the doctors appointments and ultrasounds. Did I mention thousands?

If we were to base this decision on money alone, this wouldn't even be a discussion. Nada. HOWEVER. Don't tell me I can't do something. My fallopian tubes learned THAT lesson the hard way! I spent many months thinking about ways to pay for our 2nd round with IVF. There just isn't a way to come up with that kind of cash unless you're talking about loans or criminal activity. Since we are a family of cops and teachers, they frown upon that sort of thing. I wanted something that would continue to benefit us even if it worked and we had another successful pregnancy. Enter, LuLaRoe.

I am a full-time career type of girl. I have to work. It's just in my nature. And if it means I need to provide more for us, then I need to do something that will. Even if I have to work full-time after my full-time.

I've mentioned the hangups that are hanging us up but I haven't mentioned the one thing that takes precedence over all of the hangups. When the doctors combined my eggs with Mike's sperm, we made eleven embryos (aka potential babies). We transferred two the first time and got one baby. That means we have nine on ice. NINE. Some people barely make two. There is a reason why I have nine on ice and I feel like we owe it to Luke to see what becomes of them. I can't dwell on the embryos because they aren't here with me, but I can dwell on Luke. And I feel like two toddlers, standing on the back of a sofa, giving me shit-eating grins while dumping stuff behind the sofa into the abyss might just be worth it. This is my LuLaRoe "WHY".

Harriet Tubman Rootin'

Why, hello there, my long lost lovelies! Welcome to my new, clean, purrrty blog! This has been a project in the making over the last several months. Picking colors, fonts, graphics, GOOD LORD. Then it's time to pick your portrait...and let's be honest, I have about 723 pictures on my phone right now. 23 are probably of Rudy or Snapchat screenshots that I can use as blackmail in the future. 350 are probably of Luke, who is now ONE (or 15 months, if I'm feelin' pretentious. I mean, what's the socially appropriate time to stop using age in reference to months? IDK. Much like, I don't know ANYTHING when it comes to parenting, apparently.) The other 350 are selfies, probably 15 are of me in the same outfit, the others are probably the same picture in different variations of filters. Basically, my designer ended up saying, "Why don't I just make you a character??" And I was all like, "YASSSSSSSS".

So, here it is! She nailed my face. It's the face I make literally 5,000 times a day. Waiting for my class to be quiet. Waiting for my kid to stop throwing LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE OBJECT IN MY LIVING ROOM on the floor, only for me to pick it up and wait for him to do it all over again. Waiting for some Stouffer's meal to finish in the oven at 9:00 at night because I've pushed off dinner too late and realize I have to eat and I can probably scrape some leftovers out of it for the next two days for lunches. Going to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, only to realize Mike used all the toilet paper and instead of replenishing the roll, he took one out and sat it on TOP of the roll instead of going the extra mile and putting it ON the roll. Same face for all of these things. She nailed it.

For those that don't know, a new printed currency is going to be coming out in the next few years. There are a TON of historically famous women who will be printed on the back of 5 and 10 dollar bills. (Don't quote me on this; I read the Buzzfeed article, not the NY Times.) Harriet Tubman beat out the arrogant, cocky, bull-headed Andrew Jackson for the new face of the $20. However, how in the heck is she not rolling over in her grave about the pic they are going to use? The new face printed on millions of bills is Harriet, bless her heart, looking like the skinny version of Scarlett's Mammy. I mean, find a better picture, for God's sake. If she were living, I'm sure she texted in response to her mock-up with one emoji: the black girl face-palming.

I bet even Harriet's a little jealous of my artistic character right now. 

When I was a senior in high school, my parents went somewhere for a work conference and I borrowed my mom's brand new Ford Explorer to go rootin' before I had to go to work one day after school. HOLD ON! Yes, you are on the right blog and this IS Kristin. Did I know how to "root"? Hell no. Did I anticipate the filth involved in said act? Hell no. Was it an opportunity to socialize and gossip and get out of any sort of responsibility? Yes. It's exactly the dreams of every teenager. Well, back then it was. And I'm from the sticks so that's what people did.

It turned out to be absolutely disgusting. I was afraid for my life. The other drivers were maniacs. I was too 'old lady' for my own good, even back then. Anyway, I got stuck. For like, an hour. I'd go a few inches forward, then a few inches back. Boys came and took over the wheel and they couldn't get out either. I pondered how I was going to make it to work with time to go home and shower because there was mud in places on me that should NEVER have mud on them. Namely, my hands. I pondered how long I'd be grounded for destroying my mom's car. I pondered science. There had to be a scientific way for the force of the vehicle to push itself out of the mud. Too bad I was a wordy person instead of a sciency one.

For an hour that afternoon, I sat in the passenger seat of that car and went nowhere. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not accomplishing anything. I listened as some of the more experienced rooters strategized ways to get me out. Finally, I climbed to the driver's seat and just basically floored it with all my might until the truck jolted through the mud and busted out of the rut. It was exhilarating! I did it, all by myself!

I feel like I've been in that rut for sometime now. Back and forth. Back and forth. After Luke was born, I was buried under "new mom" responsibilities and had no time to breathe or do anything else besides work, come home from work to do more work, spend a little time with my kid, sleep, repeat. I'm not supposed to feel this way at 31. I shouldn't feel this way about a profession that I love at age 31. I have 18 more years before retirement and I don't want to be the Explorer, stuck in the mud like I have been. When the "higher ups" try to console us from NOT getting a raise, they always say, "well, you didn't go into teaching for the money"...and to some degree that's true. I just want to be all 'Anastasia Steele' for a minute and ask for more. I just want more for me and for my little family.

Which brings me to another topic we've been rolling around in the mud...the possibility of having another baby. I have soooo many thoughts on this, it isn't even funny anymore. Is it fair to him? Will I love another one as much as I love Luke? Can I handle more back poop? Does this mean all the work I've put into losing baby weight has been for nothing and I could've stayed fat? It's WAY worse than making the decision to have one in the first place. In a nutshell, a muddy nutshell, it all comes down to money. Seriously. I can't even tell you how many people have told me "you can't make that decision based on finances". Um, yes I can.

Luke is ridiculously, smelly, rotten, SPOILED. No other way to put it. I'm going to have to put him in the tobacco fields with no machinery in the summers to work just to keep him grounded. That's a reason in itself to have more, right? Because surely it will bring his little conceited head down a notch. No way I'll be able to spoil TWO of them when my insurance is going to double, bigger cars come around, doctor's bills, and lastly, the cost of IVF itself. Because let's not forget ladies and gentlemen, I can't get tipsy with Mike and bust out a pregnancy on Valentine's night like a real American.

These are my real-world problems right now. Which really, aren't really problems at all because when it comes down to it, I'm so happy and content (with most things) that I have no right to even utter an annoyance about these topics. But I'm doing it anyway because I wouldn't live up to my label as "human" and "woman" if I didn't stress over things I can't control.

Please join me as I take this year to drive my mama's Explorer out of the rut. It's time I put some "uumph" into the gas pedal and make my life a little more exciting. I hope you are buckled in for the ride and won't complain too much.

It will get muddy!

(Note to my mama: I again apologize. I'm driving my own vehicle this time, not yours. You're welcome.)

THE Labor & Delivery Story, Part Two

I'm at 10 cm dilated, which means I went from 4cm to 10cm...without an epidural. At this point, I'm so thankful to be alive and not in pain. Of course, I can't move anything past my belly button, and frankly, I don't care if I'll ever be able to again after what I just went through. I keep looking at the clock on the wall and it currently reads 11:00pm. The good doc says (Wait a damn minute. She is NOT a good doc. A good doc would've given me the meds as soon as I walked on the elevator 6 hours ago.) The mediocre doc says that once I start pushing, it won't take long and I could potentially pick which day I want my kid to be born on. I'm not a math person, but I am a numbers/sign person, which means I like trends with numbers. They are meaningful to me. Specifically with this kid. All of my important IVF appointments were on odd days. All of my OB appointments were on odd days. My birthday and Mike's birthday both have odd-numbered months, days, and years (3/19/75 and 9/25/85). So I do a quick walk-through now that I can actually process thoughts and decide that this kid will be born on 9/19/15, odd month, odd day, and odd year. Once I realize this, it's pretty clear I have much work to do in order to make this happen. In less than an hour. 

There are so many things other women told me about regarding birth, babies, etc. But I promise you, there is absolutely no woman on this planet that can prepare you for what you must endure to birth a baby. There just isn't. You can read my story all day. You can watch videos of vaginal births and c-sections all day. You still will NOT be prepared for what happens. You will NOT. Nope. 

When the nurses tell you to check your modesty at the door, listen to them. Hear them. FEEL them. I'm a modest person. I'm was the girl in the locker room doing every maneuver to not let a boob slip in front of all the other boobs that happened to make appearances. I pee with the door shut and will scream if Rudy somehow pushes it open during mid-stream. If it's been awhile since I've had my eyebrows waxed, I've #1: considered calling in sick to worknand #2: contemplated wearing a paper bag over my head. Nobody likes bad eyebrows. Serious business. When I happen to pass gas and it's noticed (which has happened like 3 times since I've been married) I'm mortified and will basically keep my face buried for days afterwards. When I have to #2 at school in the adult bathroom, I do my best to cover it up with the citrus air freshener that may or may not have a working nozzle on it. I'm the one walking out in a cloud of shitrus. (This is a shout-out to all my back hall peeps!) But at least I tried my best to hide it. When it's time to take the cover-up off on the beach, I'm the one doing it in a yoga pose, one arm at a time, sitting down in my chair so I won't attract unwanted attention. I'm aware that this is unusual behavior, but when it has to do with me, 'unusual' is the standard. When people tell you do "check your modesty at the door of the labor & delivery unit", THEY ARE NOT LYING. 

The purpose of an epidural is to numb the lower portion of your body so that you won't feel even a feather wisp. Once you get it, it works. Like, forreal. They whip out the stirrups and I face the harsh reality that I will have to let go of the balled-up sheets between my legs that I've been tinkling on for dayyyyys. My nurse (who is basically my wife now) helps me get everything sorted and tells me to get my legs up on the stirrups. Um, Jennifer Gray ain't the only one carrying watermelons, and to top it off, I can't feel well, anything. I try to lift my legs and I can't get them to budge. Which makes me laugh. Hysterically. It's like the epidural had fumes because I feel high as a kite. Mike had to get one leg and position it and my nurse shifted the other. Ladies, these aren't the slightly elevated posts at the gyno's office. These are like, lay on your back and throw your legs up in the air to make a 90 degree angle. With no underwear on. And probably a kid's head playing peek-a-boo. About the time they are pushing my gown up to my chin, the room floods with literally every person in a 50 mile radius. 

There's Mike, my nurse, another nurse, my doctor, 3...count em, THREEEE nursery nurses (the baby's), and another girl who I'm not even sure worked there, but I figured, everybody in the Commonwealth is seeing my goodies tonight, what's one more random person? I mean, is the custodian going to make an appearance? Then there's me. Who is the most chill person at this point. I'm cracking jokes at the people coming in the door because what else can I do when the whole world is zoomed in on my vagina? The doc leans over and flicks the lights on. Oh, you thought it couldn't get worse? Then they turn on 2 spot lights right on the cookah. Right, like you couldn't see it clearly with all the florescent in the room, let's throw a disco ball down there and really get the party started. 

The pushing part was cake. I had to sit straight up and squeeze as hard as I could for a countdown to 10. When you can't feel anything, having to concentrate and respond to cues is worthless. It's about 11:40 now. My head is drenched with sweat, my body is numb from pure exhaustion, and I've done about 8 rounds of pushing. The nurses are all aflutter in the room. Mike is holding my left hand and weirdly, my head. (I don't think I could hold it up on my own). My doctor is soothing me with her encouraging words, and all I'm focused on is the clock. I WILL get this kid out by midnight. I'm on a rest after barely making it to "10" on the countdown, when she tells me I'm getting ready to have another contraction and I need to push. All I hear is 2 1000, 3 1000, 4-...and then the biggest "SQUISH" you've ever heard. And just to be disgusting, blood splattered alllll over the place. I didn't get what had happened. I laugh, say "ewwww!!!", and turn my head to look near the windows where I saw drops of red land. I start apologizing for making such a mess, and when I turn back around to the front, there is a teeny-tiny, grossly-covered baby laying in my lap. 

I wish I could tell you I had this life-changing, awe-inspiring moment when I first looked down at my son. I honestly had NO idea that the "SHABOOSH" I heard was me pushing him out. It was SO weird. There was not an ounce of pain; not an inkling of anything. I knew it was close to happening, I just didn't grasp that it would be the way it was. He looked up at me with this WTF face and I laughed because his lips were poking out JUST like my selfie face. First thought: He has my Resting Bitch Face. He latched on to my eyes and we didn't break contact, not even when the nurses took him away and my doctor started talking me down from the excitement. I had major concerns about me ruining the floor with my Walking Dead audition scene. I kept apologizing and trying to assess the damage. She started telling me about how I had a *little tear* (we'll discuss this later) and that she was going to sew me up, but all I could hone in on was my baby across the room who just started crying for the first time. Mike ditched me to stalk behind the nurses and I quickly went from, "OMG, I'm so sorry I just bled out in your crispy white room" to "WHY IS MY KID STILL OVER THERE AND WHY ARE SO MANY PEOPLE HOVERING OVER HIM??" 

I was told he was having a little trouble breathing, so they were going to take him to the nursery. HELLO! Do you know how hard we worked for this kid? And now you won't even let me have him? Why are you teasing me? They roll him out and I'm kinda left feeling like I got hit by a truck. My nurse takes my legs down for me and helps me to the bathroom. Oh yes. You have to pee and walk immediately after shoving a human out of you, girls. I say immediately, but I really don't know the time span. It could've been hours, but all I was concerned with was why my baby got taken from me. I go into the bathroom and my newest lifestyle gets introduced to me. 

2 of my friends emphatically told me to buy gowns after giving birth to wear for about 2 weeks. I did, but I didn't truly understand why until that moment. Here is the routine that I was required to do every single time I went to the bathroom: 

Step One: Put 2 layers of the thickest maxi pads known to man in your underwear. 

Step Two: After peeing but before you wipe, fill a water bottle with warm water and squirt yourself with it. Gently pat. I'm told this is like a douche? I'm not sure. Never used one before. Just dated some. 

Step Three: Layer Tuck's Pads on top of the maxis. Because you think your hemorrhoids just magically disappear like Cinderella's makeover at midnight following birth? Ha. Guess again. They linger like I do every time I'm in Hobby Lobby. Hours. Days. 

Step Four: Take a sheet of old people/puppy pad and fold it into your underwear so that the back portion goes up your back and the front portion comes up to your boobs. 

Step Five: Tuck all of these into the fish net that serves as hospital underwear and pray to the sweet Lord you don't have to pee for a good week and a half to avoid going through THAT again anytime soon. 

After a good hour of trying to sort myself, checking my stomach to see how long it would take to flatten out, and doing a finger-comb through salty sweat hair, this pang inside me started to get louder and louder. I never had it before, but I quickly came to know it as the MOM GENE. All I wanted was my kid. I started asking every person available to bring him to me. After annoying every person in my unit, (they knew when that hotline bling...it was Kristin Peebles in Room 325 <--even had an odd numbered room), they finally brought him back to me and it was his time to feed. 

He latched on to my boob and the only word I can truly describe the experience was, "EW". This is just, EWWW. I never put much thought into breastfeeding, I just thought, "I'll save a boat load of cash on formula if he just eats from me". No. I have an entire post coming up on the topic. Breastfeeding was probably the most frustrating experience I've ever had to deal with. I was able to carry out the process while at the hospital and for a few weeks at home, then, just no. Not worth the headache. My nurses and lactation specialist were phenomenal. I only hope that all women get to experience the greatness of a caring staff like I did. My wife even sent me cards after a week of being home. BFF status. So the staff took care of everything. If I had a question, and oh believe me, I did. I just picked up the phone and chatted with an expert. I felt guilty for letting them take Luke away from us so we could sleep, but knowing what I know now, it's probably the BEST advice I can give new parents for that hospital stay. It certainly won't be "take a Boppy" *huffs loudly*. 

Trying to get clothes on a newborn must feel like thumb tacks stabbing into their skin all over because that's the kind of fit he threw when we dressed him for the first time. That's the first indication that he has my personality...the drama king. Then came time to put him in the car seat. I specifically read all the instruction books on the equipment when Mike put it all together. I practiced over and over again putting the empty seat into my car. I wanted to be well-rehearsed when it came time to bring him home. It pretty much all escaped my brain when you take a live squirmy teeny baby and try to configure the straps and the blankets and the excess fabric when your kid's newborn outfit is like 3 sizes too big for him. Also, somebody lied to me about taking my regular, non-maternity clothes to wear home. I had purchased the cutest PJ set in my regular size but I must have been living in the twilight zone because nobody in this realm should be able to fit in their regular size a day after giving birth. Even in stretchy pants. So I had to improvise and dig through my bag for something that would fit across my belly. And match. No matter what condition you are in, you should always coordinate. (Girl 101). I'm positive the hospital charged us a late check-out fee because just getting all the STUFF out took 2 hours. FYI: 4 months later, still takes me 2 hours to load the car.

When everything was ready to go, I was not. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got home. No idea how to bathe him. No idea how to feed him. No idea how to swaddle him, even after the third time a nurse showed me how and I said, "Oh yeah! I get it". I just sat down in the chair (awkwardly, because sitting over the next week proved to be a...challenge) and pretty much refused to leave. The discharge nurse came in and I told her I wasn't leaving and she laughed. But I wasn't joking. We'd just gone through the most chaotic 48 hours of my entire life and I wasn't ready to be shoved out of the plane yet. Most couples who say they want a baby so bad have no idea what they are asking for. None. Especially us. I finally got what I wanted, now, what do I do with it?? 


**Many people have asked if I would continue my blog after having Luke. My original focus topic for the blog was miscarriage/fertility/IVF. However, I'm finding that I make a list of topics DAILY regarding the many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many issues of a new mom. I'm not the first mom ever, so I don't want to write about things that most people will roll their eyes at because they've "been there, done that". But I've also found how extremely comforting it is to realize that I'm not alone in my struggles because there's always, always someone out there experiencing the same things that I am. It is my hope that I'll be able to continue writing (probably late at night after bathies-baba-books-bedtime) because raising a child is a team effort. And your comments, emails, inboxes, and stories make you just the pros I need on this team ;) ** 

THE Labor & Delivery Story, Part One

Alright, alright, alright! You've asked for it repeatedly and I'm here to, you guessed it, deliver...hehehehe. I gave birth to our son, Lucas Decklyn on September 19th. He was one week early (and technically five weeks late if you kept up with my bed rest saga) and there is no other word to describe him other than 'perfect'. Even with blow-out dirty diapers and slobber fo' dayyyyys. Also, apparently I'm one of those moms. The ones that take 700 pictures of their baby within an hour. The ones that can't have a normal discussion with adults unless it's about baby poop, puke, sleeping schedules, or breastfeeding.The ones that we used to make complete fun of before we joined the club. The ones who don't shower for days and don't realize it, or even realize what day it actually is. But before I discovered I was one of "them", I had to get Luke here. And how he got here is nothing short of drama, extreme profanity, and simply the most gross thing I've ever experienced in my life--and I've experienced a classroom full of 10 year olds after recess on a 90 degree day. 

What you are about to read will either confirm what you already knew about me or will change your opinion regarding my less-than choir girl personality. There is no way to describe my labor story without keeping it real because quite simply, SHIT. GOT. REAL. I'll try to keep it as clean as I can (you never know who may read my words and I make a negative impact, I mean, I do still have a day job). But, I'm not sugar coating any of the story. Read on if you wish; just remember, I warned you. 

February 2015: First OB appointment to confirm pregnancy. Baby is measuring a few days ahead of schedule. I go ahead and convince myself on this day that clearly he'll be big and I'll need a C-section. I wanted to go ahead and book the surgeon. 

July-mid August: I'm only interested in hearing labor stories from other moms who had C-sections, nevermind the fact that Dr. Gospodnetic has ne-VER uttered the word to us. 

Mid August-Week 38: Sporadic contractions continue, we plan to be induced Thursday, September 24. And by induced, I thought, "Oh okay, go in and push for 10 mintues, then move me to the OR and take my kid out for me". Easy breezy. 

Saturday, September 19th, 9:00am : I'm wide awake. I haven't slept at night in about a week. I move from the bed to the living room. Get the Kindle and read a bit. Watch TV for a bit. Try unsuccessfully for a nap. We talk about going somewhere and doing something, but we are afraid that the baby will come so we decide to stay put and be bored to tears. 

1:30pm: Because it's my last week of eating ridiculously out of control and blaming it on the pregnancy, I want a meat lovers pizza. So we get it. And I eat it. And it made all my pizza dreams come true.

2:30pm: I take 2 stool softeners. I haven't pooped in days. Weeks. YEARS. 

3:55pm: Maybe some chocolate will help. I go to the bathroom, head to the kitchen to get a popsicle. Mike heads out to the store. I unwrap my popsicle, throw the wrapper away. Head to the living room and sit down on the sofa. 

4:00pm: The popsicle is literally in mid-stride to my mouth, just centimeters away, when all of a sudden there is a "SHABOOSH" and warm, wet something leaks out of me and soaks my drawers and shorts. Holy shit balls, did my water just break? Am I ruining my sofa? We just bought this! We can't afford a new sofa! People will just have to sit on my amniotic-fluid soaked cushion from here on out because this sectional ain't going anywhere for awhile now. Maybe I just peed myself? No. I just went to the bathroom. I read somewhere that you can tell the difference between pee and "water breaking" by smelling it. Pee is sour, amniotic fluid has no smell or is sometimes sweet. I stand, drop my undies and shorts because EW, and walk like I've been riding a horse for a month to the bathroom. 

Okay, it's clear. But my pee is sometimes clear? Shit. I thought there'd be more? I can't sit on the toilet and check anything. If it was my water breaking, shouldn't I have pain? Isn't my kid's head supposed to be like poking out down there now? What if I sneeze and he shoots out into the toilet? I bend over and take a whiff of my shorts. No smell. So, not pee? WTF is happening??

4:02pm: I call Mike and let him know he may want to whip it back around to the house because we got action. God only knows the people he caused to wreak or how many laws he's used to enforcing that he broke on the way home. Meanwhile...

I knew I should've taken a damn shower this morning. This means I won't be able to shower for days and all my pictures are going to have shitty hair. I brush my teeth, put on the "go" outfit (see below, taken approximately 10 minutes after the water breakage!) and linger around the bedroom checking for stuff I may have forgotten in my bag. Mike is sweating like a warthog in the middle of the African desert. We've had our bags packed for a week, but he's literally throwing shit into his bags like the house is on fire. We head into the kitchen and it's time for me to leave Rudy. I squat down to his level and start to cramp pretty badly. Which means this is really happening...and when I come home, it won't ever be the same. Which makes me burst into tears and suffocate my dog all the while apologizing to him and begging him to not hate me when I got back. 

5:05pm: We make it to the hospital in a ridiculously short amount of time. Luckily, I'm only having moderate period-like cramping. Enough to walk in on my own and tour my room. And ask about menus and checking out the snack center. My nurse swabs my fluid to send it off to the lab to confirm I'm in labor before my doc comes in. I get cozy. 

6:05pm: The cramping gets worse. My lab work comes back in and says I'm NOT in labor. Excuse me? I have a puddle of baby liquid floating on my sofa at home and these cramps are not lying. I am NOT leaving this place with this kid in me!! 

7:05pm: My doctor comes in a takes a look at the action that may or may not be happening downstairs. She agrees to not send me home quite yet; but she doesn't put me in the "active labor" category that is apparently the coveted status of all pregnant people. She suggests Mike and I go walk around the unit to perhaps get things on the go. We head out and before I can even make it down the front hall, something snaps and it feels like I've been hit in the gut by a baseball bat. I double over in pain and tell Mike there's no way I'm going anywhere except back to my room. 

So here's the thing. When you're in labor, things are contracting. And not just your uterus. The place that's been holding all my stored up poop for months starts to release the super glue grip it's had on me. Oh, and lest we not forget the 2 stool softeners I had earlier. I have in my will that should I go into labor and can't communicate, #1-do everything possible to get the baby out and #2-do not let me poop during labor. I don't really have a will. But everyone close to me, including my nurses, knew that I could do anything needed to help my kid, but I refused to poop during labor. And if by chance it did happen, I required a blood signature stating that it would never be spoken of again. 

I make it back to my room and go straight to the bathroom. I've heard people, especially men, say that the greatest feeling other than an orgasm is the first pee post-orgasm. I can promise you I did not have an orgasm, but I pooped the greastest poop in the history of mankind. Not to be crude, but okay, this is totally crude, it was the most I've ever pooped in my entire life. I was convinced I had already given labor from just sitting on the toilet. I wanted to weigh myself. And that's saying something when a 39 week pregnant lady WANTS to get on the scale. It was phenomenal. 

My joy was brief, as about 10 minutes after the farewell to the pizza, the cramping went from moderate to knock-you-down. I couldn't sit still, as squirming was the only way to bring me some sort of relief. I started watching the clock and realized my contractions were not even making it five minutes apart. Where in the name of all that is holy is the doctor and blessed EPIDURAL?! Did they miss my shirt? Because I'm pretty damn sure this kid is ripe. 

About this time is when the shaking starts. I'm talking like, Jack and Rose floating in the ocean shaking. The nurse tells me it's from all the adrenaline or something, I'm not really listening. I just know Mike keeps asking me if I'm cold and bless his heart, I want to set fire to every blanket within a 10-foot radius. 

7:45pm: My doctor comes in and checks me again. 4 cm dilated. Where did you get your medical degree? Are these measurements in English? Or customary yada yada yada? Or metric?  I'm sure I've passed centimeters an hour ago and it's the circumference of an elephant's head down there. And last time I checked, I AM NOT AN ELEPHANT. As soon as she puts her hand in, the same warm rush I felt at 4:00 happens again and I soak the bed. It's official, the REST of my water broke and she puts me in active labor. Bitch, I've been in active labor for like seven hours. Where the everloving Jesus is my epidural?! 

The pain is too much for me to talk more than a word or two at a time by this point. My nurse tells me they've put an order in for my epidural. She also tells me there are 8 other women on my floor in active labor. I don't give a flying monkey how many women in the WORLD there are, I just need this pain to go away. WHY WASN'T THIS ORDERED IN FEBRUARY WHEN I FOUND OUT I WAS PREGNANT?! I will never complain about period cramps again. Wait, can't they just take out everything when they grab the baby? Any cramp-inducing part down there needs to be extracted!

8:30pm: I start trying to come up with little things to try to distract me from the pain, which is crazy-intense and is happening about 2 minutes apart. I count ceiling tiles. I try to come up with names for every letter of the alphabet. I can't be still. I've got the sheets wrapped up between my legs and I'm squeezing them together whenever a contraction hits. I also find that every time I squeeze, a little pee comes out. Possibly other things too. And I don't even carrrre. 

I never had lamaze, but all I kept saying to myself was "breathe" over and over. I remember the movie Knocked-Up. I remember thinking, "Why is this chick screaming like that? Is she being over-dramtic or what?!" No. She was NOT. Katherine, I feel you. I think my robe has come undone and I think my boobs are out. If Mike asks me one more time if I'm okay, I'm going to rip the side of this bed off and throw it in his face! I can't do this. I can't do this! Yes you can. Jamie's sister in 'Outlander' gave birth in her bedroom with no medicine and no doctors. But she had whiskey. WHERE THE F*@! IS MY EPIDURAL?! Is there a mini fridge in this room? Can somebody get me a shot? If 1700's women got drunk during labor, then I might as well. SINCE NOBODY IN THIS MOTHER LOVING HOSPITAL CAN GET ME AN EPIDURAL. Melanie from Gone With the Wind did this in her bed. In Atlanta. In the middle of summer. Why did they all have on long sleeves? I'm in AC and am half naked but my blood is literally boiling, I'm positive!

Count to 10. 1. 2. 3. F*@! thisssssss. I moan. Out loud. It's official. I'm one of those dramatic laboring women. They can't get me my meds, I'm going to let them hear about it. IN ALASKA!!!! What number was I on? 17? 18. 16. 12. 2- The nurse comes back in to tell me the epidural is on the way. I ask her "how long" (at least I think I say something along those lines, I lost all coherent speech capabilities 900 contractions ago.) She tells me 45 minutes. 45 mother f*@!king minutes? Get the hell out of here. GET OUT. What kind of place is this? What is happening. Does this kid have teeth already? Because it literally feels like he's ripping my insides out. Breathe. Breathe.

9:30pm: I'm on my side and basically making out with the railing with the fancy tech stuff on it. There are buttons in the shape of a triangle. I can't read them because I can't focus enough to, but those buttons are what I stare at. There is no relief now, so it must be time. I'm just in one big, never-ending contraction. I can't do this. I can't. I figure the only way to get out of this situation is to talk to the one person who got me into it in the first place. Dear God, I. Can't. Do. SQUUUUEEEEZZZEEE. This. I-I-...I'm in so much pain I can't even string together a prayer. For some reason I think about Kelly in 90210 (I must have been delirious at this point) and I remember when she was in the fire and started reciting the Lord's Prayer. If Kelly, who we all hated, could talk to God, then surely I can too. Our father, who art in heaven.. Is it are? Or is it art? GOD, I CAN'T REMEMBER THE REST OF THE PRAYER!!! Help me, Jesus, God, Buddha, Santa, whoever is out there and can hear me, help a sistah out. I can't do this. I can't. Seal him in. I'll be pregnant forever. 

10:00pm: I don't remember much after I failed at life and couldn't even say the one prayer in the world even atheists know. I just remember it was pain so severe I couldn't function. My nurse comes in to tell me the man is just down the hall and is coming to do my epidural. She needs me to sit up on the side of the bed. Bitch are you trippin? I can't lift my hand, much less my body. And who gives a shit about the meds now? You all were supposed to prevent me from having this pain. I might as well keep going without. Wait, what am I saying? Am I talking out loud? Stop. Come back. Come back! I can do it. I can! Give me the meds. Oh, I didn't say it out loud because I can't talk. With the help of my nurse, she redresses me and somehow by miracle, I get sat up on the edge of the bed. 

Then this man walks in. A MAN. Are you effing kidding me? Who sends a male in here at this point? He's doing the epidural? He's sticking a needle into my spine? What does he know about this? HELP. ME. Jesus, I know I forgot the prayer. But if you are out there and can hear me, can you hear me? I'm trying to think REALLY LOUD because I REALLY need your help. Keep me calm. I've got to get this kid out. They obviously don't know what they are doing so it's up to me. Help me. I can do this. I can! 

The guy comes behind me and tells me he needs me to sign something. Get the F*@! outta my face. I can't hold a pen right now! Are you joking? The nurse takes my hand and somehow throws some sort of scribble on the sheet. He tells me to sit as straight up as  I can and to be extra still. Impossible, you jackass. I'm in the middle of giving birth to a field of watermelons. It can't be just one in there. They missed the second embryo on all the ultrasounds. I've got Godzilla pushing out of my body and you want me to be still? I hate you. I HATE you! I guess I couldn't do what he needed me to, because the next thing I know is this guy is saying, "Kristin, I really need you to sit still so I can get this into you and give you some relief". Mildly attractive man, I REALLY need you to try and push a tennis ball out of your penis and then come and tell me to sit still. Only then will you understand the true hell I'm in. I don't know how long this process actually takes and I also don't know the horror of nasty things I said to this gentlemen, but I know it worked. Somehow, some way, deep down inside of me, I found the strength to be still long enough for it to kick in.   

10:45pm: I wish I could describe the pain leaving my body. As quickly as it came on, it quickly started to go away. It was like my contractions were coming back and I could get some relief between them. There were angels singing. Choirs rejoicing. (Although I don't know why, I forgot the prayer, for cryin' out loud).  They sent Mike out before the guy got there to administer the epidural. After 45 minutes of pure torture, they let him in. I fixed my new no-pee-pee sheet like a sickly old southernly woman and turned the bed clothes down nice and neat, nevermind that 15 minutes before I was withering away in pain and begging the Lord to take me but save my baby. It had come to that. I try to do something with my drenched head, but realize like my modesty, sanity, and ability to do this ever again, it's a lost cause. Mike walks in and I'm a different person. There is no pain. I'm flipping through channels and thinking about what I want for a midnight snack. I could smoke a cigarette and I don't even smoke. I finally calmed down enough for my doctor to come back in and recheck me. I'm assuming she does her shove-in but at this point, bombs could've been going off around my cookie and I wouldn't have felt a thing. 

With one arm hidden under the sheet, she grins up at me. "You're at 10 cm! Let's PUSH!"...FML.

**The saga continues in my next post, "THE Labor & Delivery, Part Two (& the first week home!)** Stay tuned. 

Not Ready to be Not Pregnant

A month ago, I left you with the burning saga of me being put on "bed rest" at Week 33, with the imminent arrival of my kid set to happen at any moment. 

Here I am at Week 38...at the end of the final season of Will & Grace, waddling around in my granny panties on a diet of stool softeners and Caffeine-Free Pepsi, and you guessed it, NO KID. I'm basically a retired 70 year old. 

People who say teachers don't do anything need to be body slammed and punched in the throat. I'd made it through half of the third trimester with NO PROBLEMS, went back to work for two days, and basically started premature labor. Taking me out of work has been quite a challenge for me, but it clearly saved my baby from any potentially harmful medical issues from being born too soon. The first two weeks at home were filled with busy work. We had done noth-ing, noth-ing to prepare for a newborn. Call it procrastination, call it laziness, call it us being in denial that this was actually getting ready to happen, but we had just pushed things to the end thinking we still had weeks to get stuff done. In those two weeks, I perfected the art that is online shopping. 

I'd say my retail expertise has increased from a 4 to an 9.2. I'm on a first name basis with all area UPS, USPS, and FedEx men. They've all seen me in my pajamas, or lack thereof, and with no make-up. We are pretty much a family. But let me not forget all my regulars at Food Lion in the middle of the day. Betty, Ethel, Harvey, and Cornelia. I don't know if these are actually their names or not, but it's who I shop with for an hour at 11:30 on weekdays so I named them and they are my friends. Sadly, our combined age average is 64, yet they are the ones who end up helping me take my cart back in or picking something up from the bottom of a shelf. 

This brings me to a very significant problem I've been having lately. 

I'm not sure if I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore. 

My due date is September 26, next Saturday. I've been going to my doctor once a week since mid-August and for 4 of those weeks, nothing had changed. I was still dilated the same, my weight stayed the same...UNDER my allowed-pregnancy-weight-gain-goal, may I add (GASP!), and we pretty much left his office each time feeling just down right pissed. How dare you tease me and make me (Mike) work like a dog for days at a time preparing for a baby who apparently doesn't want to leave the awesomeness that is my uterus!? I had even told people that I was thinking of switching doctors if we decided to do this again because of his flippant attitude here lately. Then we went to the doctor this week and my pissiness came to a grinding halt. 

When I stepped on the scale Tuesday, I had gained 4 pounds. 4. FOUR. 4 POUNDS. I mean, for the past two months I'd been eating whatever, whenever, however, and it was all well and good because every time I went in, the scale wouldn't move. My BP was excellent. All was right with the world. Then BAM! My head exploded when the number after the "1" wasn't what it had been saying, it was the next number up. Then they took my BP, which was really good, but slightly higher than what I'd been running. Then it was time for the "Shove-In Show" with the good doc, and I had dilated another centimeter. Then it was all, "let's induce you next Tuesday, if you make it that long". Um, hellllerr?? He'd been all non-nonchalant and hush-hush about my status and I'd convinced myself he was one of these hippie doctors who would just let me stay pregnant til like, Week 47, then he's says I will be taking a live human that bursts from my vagina within the week, BEFORE his due date? Shut. Up!! 

That's where we are. I'm being induced next Tuesday morning, if I even make it through the weekend. We have everything that can be possibly ready, ready. His room is ready, our house is ready. The bags are ready. GAHHHHH. So what's wrong with me?! Why am I sad about this? I thought postpartum depression was just that, POST. People are so friendly to you when you're pregnant. Everybody smiles and awws and coos at you. They lie and tell you how good you look, constantly. Who wants to be rid of that? We worked so hard for years for this, and now, it's getting ready to be taken away. I'm sure the thought just crossed your mind, "how selfish of her". And you're right; to an extent. People with fertility issues only ever say, "I can't wait to be pregnant" or "If I could only get pregnant" or "If I could only stay pregnant". For me, that was more of my mantra than, "If we could only have a baby", I guess because I was the reason we couldn't. You build yourself up on that mantra for so long, when you finally get it and it's about to be over, it's a little sad. I guess it's like what Olympians go through? They train so hard to win gold, then they do, then...well, what do they do after that? Oh, change diapers and clean up projectile vomit. That's what. 

Let's move on from "sad" to "gross". I have found something that people avoid talking about almost as much as miscarriages. And that something is hemorrhoids. I had a little dose of this condition way back in the first trimester. It passed. Not a big deal. Then over the past few days, I started to HURT. I couldn't sit, I couldn't stand. I was using the baby's Boppy to sit on on the sofa because my bum was on FIRE. I'm talking, P-A-I-N. All I kept thinking was, what am I going to do if I go into labor like this? I mean, I just learned about "ripping". Oh yes, the ripping. Ms. Ghee in 8th grade Health taught me how to put a condom on, but she neglected to tell me why women should avoid pregnancy all together in the first place: RIPPING AND HEMORRHOIDS. She should've shown the class pics of THAT up on the over-head projector and I can't speak for all, but THIS girl wouldn't have had to worry about penis getting anywhere NEAR her. Ever. 

When I was first made aware about ripping, I was all, "Wait, excuse me, what? It actually TEARS from that to...THAT? What? How does it go back? HOW WILL I PEE?! HOW WILL I DO...ANYTHING EVER AGAIN?! Tell me you're joking. SHUT. UP. Ew. EW. I want a C-section. I WANT A C-SECTIONNNNN, SCHEDULE IT NOW!" Then you throw this little bundle of grapes into the mix and now there's ripping and grapes exploding during my labor and PAIN, and you know what? I just can't even think about this anymore. I'm going to move on. I'm going to be positive. I'm going to FREAKING GET THIS KID OUT OF ME. With drugs. Lots and lots of miracle, numbing DRUGS. Somebody bring me my 5th grade D.A.R.E. t-shirt because I may D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs, but I sure as hell am allll about giving them to pregnant people. 

I may be scared. I may be grossed out. I may faint during labor, which is fine with me, just wake me up after they lay Bae on my chest and he stares up into my face and goes, "So you're the face of the most annoying human on the planet who clearly thinks nobody can hear her perform Reba's "Fancy" when you're in the car alone". Then I can say back to him, "HEMORRHOIDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And all will be right with our world. 

Because we truly are tickled...BLUE...about our baby's arrival, all horror and depression stories aside, I decided to share some of the awesome things his awesome parents dorked out over for his nursery. Enjoy what our baby will be staring at for the next (at least!) 18 years ;) 

My original theme (probably since the first trimester) was 'pandas'. Then, I found these pictures on Etsy and I couldn't get them out of my mind. So, Baby Star Wars nursery theme was born! We wanted something totally different from the traditional "boy". I'm obsessed with it.

 Can we just talk about this retro-classic Star Wars clock I found? It's the perfect accent over this Lego Star Wars shelf near the crib. Don't give me a theme because I will go above and beyond. Holler.

 Some of you may recognize the left picture as my childhood/teenage/young adult chester drawers. Although, you may not because it isn't covered with Jonathan Taylor Thomas/Justin Timberlake-circa blonde tips Bop magazine cut-outs. Mike Annie Sloan chalk painted the hell out of them and the right pic is the finished product. 

 I, (like my father), am a Redskins fan and Mike is a Packers fan. My dad worked as an Ambassador at the Redskins Training Camp this summer and got access to a personal autograph session. He took a onesie with him and had as many players (like, ones that actually play and are important!) sign it as possible. Then he got it framed for the nursery. This is why my kid's Papa is cooler than yours. 

As if you haven't done it enough for us over the years, please, please keep up in your prayers over the next few days. Everything is set to go smoothly, but...you know me ;)