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 ;) 

Straight Outta...This Body

Why hello, my long-lost readers! As it turns out, I'm way less interesting as a pregnant Kristin than a trying-to-get-pregnant Kristin. I've been more or less the same for the past few weeks with nothing new or exciting to share. Time is FLYING by; my due date is almost one month away. My hatred of all things "underwear" and "pants" is still holding steady. We had our week 33 ultrasound and check up last week and everything still looked right on target and is measuring appropriately. So why am I not at work and why am I currently writing this with my feet propped up at home, where I'll be for the next eternity until this kid makes his appearance? 

Because it's ME we're dealing with here, basically. And anything that has to do with me is going to be different from any plan that was ever put in place. That's why. 

Sunday I woke up to go to the bathroom for the 7th time in an hour only to stare down at the toilet paper post-wipe to find it covered in blood. Of the bright red variety. Every morsel of my being froze in time because the last time I checked, I'm pregnant at 34 weeks, not 4 (or 5, or 6) when I usually wipe and find RED. I had absolutely no pain or any indication that something was wrong. I called my doctor and he wasn't overly concerned. This is something common for late pregnancy, probably broken blood vessels as the cervix begins to expand and open. Um, excuse me? I have to walk around with an open CERVIX for the next month? Anything can just fall right out of that thing. I teach science. I know a thing or two about gravity. The rest of the day, I just wiped a snotty, sinus-infection type substance and no sign of any blood. It was just a random thing. 

Until Monday morning when I woke up and thought I had started my period because I was cramping. Let me just say, I'm an expert at my body and KNOW when something is out of sync. I also have a high tolerance for period pain because, not to be morbid, but I've had 4 miscarriages that squeezed outta me and a little crampy feeling down there isn't something I stress over. I called the doctor again to be safe, only to be told to come in ASAP as they were pretty darn tootin' sure I'd lost my mucus plug and the period cramps I was having were CONTRACTIONS and NOT cramps. Hold. The. Phone. 

When you hear "contractions" you think of labor. Labor isn't something I've allowed myself to think of. It's just week 34! Are you kidding me? I'm not ready for this kid. I haven't had my showers where people could sit and stare at my giant pregnant belly for an hour where I freak out over burp cloths and 75 different styles of fleece blankets. I've waited and worked extra hard to be able to reach that stage of awkwardness! And talks of mucus plugs and dilation? I was counting on at least week 37 before I had to Google Image those things. (Who am I fooling? I'd already Googled both things and let me just tell you: DON'T.) 

We head into the doctor's office and after he literally shoves his entire arm up my cookah, it is determined that I've "opened", he's "dropped", I'm a little over 1.5 cm dilated, and my contractions-not-cramps are happening about every hour. Let's go back to the "entire arm up my cookah". Being hugely preggo, that's an area that hasn't seen much action from medical professionals. I'd gotten used to having my belly Nickelodeon Slimed at every appointment. Having a hand take a dive down there isn't a pleasant feeling, ladies. I'm pretty sure if I hadn't dilated any, after that was over, I surely WAS. Jeez Louise. 

Obviously, it's a little early for this baby to come into the world. I'm actually questioning if it was really MY embryo that was implanted because I've never been early for anything IN. MY. LIFFFFFE. How can this be my kid? We'd like to make it to at least full term, heck, I'd like to make it til at least week 36. The best choice for the safety of the both of us was for me to come out of work and be put on modified bed rest. I can move around, but I can't be on my feet for long periods of time. Which isn't a problem for me, because sometimes the pressure is a bit much...as if I could look down and see the top of his head. No joke. 

There have been numerous women put on bed rest for many reasons, so my anxiety level hasn't gone through the roof just yet. I'm aware of every move I make. I have thoughts of, "What if I go take a shower, how will I know when my water breaks?" or "LAWD I need to repaint my toes because that is gross" and "What am I going to change into when the time actually comes?" and other vain, important things like that. I haven't even had time to get my labor and delivery gown made that says #EPIDURAL in giant letters on the front. 

We do have our "go-bags" together and ready. I spent much time reading about exactly what to take and luckily, I found my soul-mate blogger who I knew had the perfect go-bag list. She had me at, "Always put your make-up bag back in the go-bag instead of the cabinet so you'll be able to greet your many hospital guests with a face that covers up your pure exhaustion and perhaps you won't look like total death shit in every picture your child will have from his birth". Or this gem of advice: "Make sure you take a bag big enough to steal extra things from the hospital so you won't have to waste your stuff. Babies are freaking expensive". Watch this quick sketch below that nails exactly what Mike will experience if I find one unpleasant picture of me posted post-birth. 

If this video doesn't play, I apologize. I tried embedding it, but sometimes technology repels me. Here is the link you can copy if you reeeeally want to see this clip:. https://youtu.be/dViMtGK63zk

I'm hanging in there and the contractions seem to have stopped for now. There's nothing for me to do except release control over situations I have no control over. Story of my life. I've taken the past two days to adjust that this is real life and I'm having this baby very soon, maybe even sooner than I realize. With all the effort we put into making him, my body is just so happy with itself that it's contained him so far that it wants to meet him. Slow yo roll, uterus. Bottom line is, it doesn't matter how unprepared we are, how I'll look when and after labor hits, or when it decides to happen. This kid has had a purpose since the moment he was created. And he clearly wants it to be made known; sooner rather than later. 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tubeman

While most Americans were celebrating the fourth this past weekend, we were celebrating the third on the fourth...the beginning of the third trimester, that is!!! I spend most of my time sitting around thinking, "I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is happening." While I never truly gave up on the hope of this becoming reality one day, there were times I accepted I may never see my belly grow. But, grow it has and we are approximately two months away from being parents. 

Readers have been on my case lately about why I haven't posted that much during my pregnancy. There are two reasons for that. One-I don't want to be one of those people who are all "in your face" with, "LOOK AT ME, I'M PREGNANT". I can't do the weekly chalk boards with the changing produce every week. It doesn't make sense to me how one week the baby is the size of a corn cob and the next, baby is the size of a rutabaga. First of all, if my kid looks like an ear of corn, I don't want to advertise it. I want to seek medical attention ASAP because something is CLEARLY wrong. Second of all, WTF is a rutabaga? If I have to Google Image the vegetable that my kid is compared to, it's a waste of my time. And last but not least, unless the fertility clinic mixed up Mike's sperm with a member of the Fruit of the Loom crew, I feel fairly confident my rapidly expanding mid-section contains a human baby. Or at least something that remotely resembles one. 

Most women who I see doing these things are first time moms, just like me. I get it. We are beyond thrilled our dream is coming true. We want to share it with every single person we meet. I feel like I'm a part of this secret pregnant lady society because whenever I see another random pregnant person, we give each other a little wave or a sly smile. It's like when I'm riding with Mike in his big, jacked-up truck. When we meet other big, jacked-up trucks, whether he knows the driver or not, they give each other a wave. I mean, do they have secret big, jacked-up truck meetings they attend? Are they card-carrying members? Sheesh. 

I don't want to hate on those soon-to-be moms for taking every advantage of letting the world know they are about to become parents. If anyone has a right to do those things, it's me, for cryin' out loud. I just feel like it's too much for the women who are still suffering to have to see every waking second of my pregnancy on their newsfeeds. Whenever I leave the doctor's office, especially if I have ultrasound pics in my hand, I hide them in my purse instead of gushing over them while making my next appointment. We've been the couple standing next to them who were just told they'd lost another pregnancy. It's tough. 

The second reason I've been slack with the posts is because...I'm not the first nor only girl to be pregnant. SHOCKER. With every new symptom I come across, I share with other female friends or family. Their response has always been, "well just wait, it gets worse" or "uh-huh, I remember that". Having heard these responses for weeks now, it seemingly has taken me down a few notches. I haven't experienced anything different from what anybody else has. None of it is exciting to other women who have kids. Things that baffle me make my mom-friends roll their eyes with boredom. I just have to face facts and the fact is: I'm not a special case anymore. I'm just a big, waddling human whose body has to take one for the team in order for our kid to make it here. 

You all know I'm a major fan of lists. I can't function if I don't have numbers or bullets or icons. I have lists for my lists. The concept of Buzzfeed was stolen from me, I'm positive. Today, I'd like to showcase some of the concerns (via you guessed it, a list!) of the "Only If You're Pregnant in the Third Trimester in July Club". This is for my summer pregnancy sistahs who are currently out of breath just from sitting there reading this. 

My Concerns During the Third Trimester...in July: 

1. Landscaper for Hire: I like to keep things in tip-top shape, down there. Much like coloring, I like landscaping and keeping everything in between the lines. However, what is a girl to do when she can't see the...down there in order to keep things in order? There is no propping up of the legs in the shower. There is no bending. FOR ANYTHING. I don't know if shower sweat is a thing, but I get it every time it's a shaving day because for the love of cookies, I can't find the right position. You can't go at it blind either. What woman can confidently put on eyeliner with her eyes closed? Um. You wouldn't want to blindly take a razor to the nether-regions, either. I was in the shower the other day for thirty whole minutes looking just like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tubeman from used car lots or in an episode of Family Guy. It was a filthy, hot mess. 

2. CLOGGED: The Wizard of Oz is just THE BEST movie to line-drop during certain situations. It's classic. The song the Scarecrow and Tinman sing to Dorothy when they first meet has been in my head fo' dayssss. To refresh your memory, it goes something like this:

With the thoughts you'd be thinkin'

You could be another Lincoln

If you only had a brain...

I would dance and be merry

Life would be a ding-a-derry

If I only had a brain...

Now you remember? Can't get it out of your head? You're welcome. Here's my version: 

Oh the pounds I'd be losin'

Less fiber I'd be choosin' 

If I could only go and poop...

Oh it's much less whimical, I know. But it's a true story. I don't want to hear another single piece of advice for how to cure this. I've tried high fiber, greens, healthy dieting, horrible dieting, softeners, water out the ying-yang. There is no hope, Obi Wan. Just know that hopefully within the next few weeks when the heavens open up from the clouds and you can hear angels singing out, it's because I've had success during a bathroom visit. Moving on. 

3. Underwear or Underwhere? There is so much advice for essential maternity clothes (how much you'll need, where to buy from, etc.) But nobody wants to talk about maternity underwear. I'm a boy-short kinda girl, therefore, I've been able to get by with the low-cut just under the belly style for trimesters one and two. But things started to stretch, so I started to investigate. Maternity underwear is expensive. I don't mind dropping a dime at VS during a semi-annual sale, but I sure ain't dropping one for draws that I can only wear for two months. I ventured to Target and bought two packs of granny panties in a larger size than what I normally wear. First of all, I haven't bought underwear in packs since Ariel's Little Mermaid panties were a must-have when I'm pretty sure I was 10. Secondly, the granny panties are NOT a help. The low-cut bikini seem to suck the life outta my hips, which are not lying these days. The regular bikini come higher up on my belly, but once I sit down and then stand back up, they seem to take a missing. Then I have to dig and adjust, which can make for awkward public situations. Finally, somebody suggested I go commando. I don't have a problem with this, however, this is where the particular "pregnant in July" concern comes into play. July means heat, which means sweat. Shower sweat is one thing, but commando sweat is a whole new ballgame. 

4. Dribble: I'd heard that some women towards the end of their pregnancy experience the inability to control their bladder. I thought this was a myth. It is not. Don't make me laugh unexpectedly. Pray I don't sneeze without clinching first. And for cryin' out loud, hope I don't choke or catch a frog in my throat. Coughing is strictly on the no-fly-zone until this kid is out. That is all. 

5. Royal Treatment: It started with simple door-holding. It escalated to traffic stopping as I tried to cross a street or parking lot. It's like this huge bump is holding the Queen of England. At Chick-fil-A, the guy behind the counter refused to let me carry my food on a tray (because clearly, it is very taxing to walk ten steps while holding chicken nuggets), so he came from behind and escorted my food (and me) to a table. People who normally wouldn't bat an eye my way stop and openly stare at my stomach, smile, then go out of their way to let me in front of them, etc. (Or they could be asking that age-old question: Is she pregnant or is she fat?) Lawd forbid if I drop something. It's like a swarm of bees around me refusing to let me bend over, not that I actually could. I don't think I'm going to be able to go back to being un-pregnant. Because being (obviously) pregnant has it's perks. It brings out the best in people. And it's the get-outta-anything ticket for me. 

I don't want to jinx myself by writing this, but overall, my pregnancy experience so far has been a pleasant one. Karma was probably like, "Aw, let's let her have something easy for a change". Some of the things on my list have been trifling, but I'd take dealing with them for the next 12 weeks over never getting the chance to deal with them at all. And that, my friends, is saying something--coming from a member of the Only If You're Pregnant in the Third Trimester in July club. (Or AARP for that matter, because the symptoms I'm having could qualify me for either...eek!)

Babies R Not Us

Such a discouraging title this week for somebody who is 22 weeks pregnant...You'd think I'd be beginning to get myself together considering we are more than half way done with this pregnancy! Since my last post at 16 weeks, I've accepted that this is really happening. There is a forreal baby inside me right now, tumbling around (probably because there is a laptop on top of him; I'm sure it's a big no-no on the list of things to NOT do while pregnant, but hey, I won that award weeks ago according to my daily newsletter from What to Expect While You're Expecting.) 

I have been feeling SO good this trimester! I'm sleeping, eating, have energy, eating, my skin looks PHENOMENAL, eating more, and have basically grown to the point where I can no longer see my nether regions. To give you a better picture (not of my nether regions, get your mind outta the gutter!), while I get dressed in the mornings, Mike comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my belly while quoting one of our Top 5 favorite movies of all time, Airplane, "And Kristin's gettinnnnggg LARRRGGERRRR". 

The first few times was rather humorous. Now if looks could kill, my kid would be fatherless. 

One symptom I'm experiencing a little early is frequent urination. I had this somewhat in the first trimester, but as things are shifting, my blatter takes a daily beating. There is a rap song that gets played on every Gatorade commerical ever created and at every basketball game played that goes like, "All I do is win, win, win, no matter what!" All I hear every hour in my head is, "All I do is pee, pee, pee, no matter what!". #pregnancyproblems

Let's talk about the daily newsletters I mentioned. I'm a little concerned about the words "fit" and "pregnancy". Especially when used in the same sentence. What is this trend and how did it get started? WHO. DID. THIS. I've been proud of myself for trying to walk at least 5 times a week for about 30 minutes. I sleep well and I feel better afterwards, but during...Holy Christmas cookies. Last summer I was running miles and this summer I can't walk from the porch to the driveway without shortness of breath. I can't walk across my classroom to the trashcan without having to take a break. How are these women running and lifting and doing this insanity?! All I can give them is props because the only way I'm going to improve my regimen (and lack thereof) is if I walk a mile with a team of doctors riding in a van behind me with proper oxygen equipment on standby. 

Also, who in the name of Santa came up with sizing your baby each week to produce? Last week, I was at a spaghetti squash. The week before I was a papaya. What are these things? Do they even grow here? I had to Google Image them to reference the size of my daggone baby. Why can't they reference foods most Americans will understand? "This week your baby is the size of a Lay's Snack Pack bag of BBQ chips" or "This week your baby is the size of an apple turnover from McDonald's". I finally just had to find an actual ruler to visualize the actual size of the baby using the measurements. If I had to resort to using math skills, then it's officially time to change the produce equivalents, you pregnancy expert people.

Last weekend we decided to go to Babies R Us to make our baby registry. There were tears. There were talks of divorce. There were feelings of helplessness. Mike and I are pretty intelligent people, but when you put two intelligent people in a world where they know nothing about their surroundings, tensions will rise. We might as well have landed in Bangkok.

I'm the oldest of seven grandchildren so I remember how to change diapers and how to hold babies and how to feed them. But the youngest grandchild is now in high school and I'm 29. It's been a few days. Now, you can't use powder on babies? WHAT? They have wipe-warmers? WHAT?! There are bottle warmers so you won't burn your wrist while checking milk temperatures. WHERE AM I? Is this real life? There were carriers and strollers and carriers that went with strollers and carriers that you could buy in addition to matching strollers that already had carriers. It was as if someone took apart every part to my car and left them in my driveway then told me to rebuild it. Total shock and confusion. I plan to breastfeed (I think, o.O) so we went down the bottle aisle. Insanity, I tell you. Pure insanity. There were 7,000 types of bottles. 8,000 types of nipples. Accessory kits. Starter kits. Kits for kits for kits that I don't even know the purpose for.

I just wanted to channel Prissy and scream "I DON'T KNOW NOTHIN' BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES, MISS SCARLETT!!!!!!!!!!!!" right in the middle of the crib aisle when I found out you do in fact have to purchase the mattress separately from the bed. Help. Me. 

Meanwhile, there are these moms that kept showing up on the same aisle as me either with their children or with bellies much further along than me. They all looked like they knew what they were doing, going directly towards an item with confidence. I'm standing with glazed-over eyes in a state of shock while Mike is taking 25 pictures of this ridiculous Batman car seat, so I started to shoot daggers at the expert mommies with my eyes that said, "How dare you be more pregnant than me?" or "My kid will be way cuter than your kid!". Green with envy, it turns out, is not my color. 

We pretty much spent two full hours in the store and added 300 items to a list. Of the 300 items, I'm confident I know how to use 10 of them. Maybe. I can already hear my son in his Mikey from Look Who's Talking voice saying, "Mommy, that wipe is too cold on my bum! Why were you so cheap to not buy the wipe warmer?" And me with my frequent response, "Son, your bum may be cold for 30 seconds, BUT DID YOU DIE?" I'll go ahead and join that hashtag chain (#butdidyoudie) because I feel like it'll be a mantra at the Peebles Family Household. 

We've worked for years to get to this point. We both want children so we can teach them and take them places and mold them into the best versions of ourselves. But you start that when they are toddlers. It's like 3 years I have to keep this kid alive for until I start to know what I'm supposed to do! We went to war with infertility and we won, but it's like an entire war about to start all over again. I'm the walking-talking professor for knowing what to do to get pregnant, but when it comes to knowing what to do when he actually gets here, I might as well be the stoner drop-out guy from college that was in all of your classes but you never understood why he was there and how he managed. 

I'm praying all these people are correct in the assumption that things will come naturally to me once he gets here. If not, I'll go ahead and work up a schedule and sign-up sheet for my readers that have been there, done that and are willing to come and change my kid's diapers. But preferably without powder and with the use of a diaper warmer, because, DUH. Everybody knows that...

Hooooo, BOY!

I'm currently in Week 16 and it. has. been. FABULOUS! I reread my last post and was so disappointed in myself...I don't even recognize the miserable old coot that wrote it. With the second trimester brings a second wind, so to speak. So far in my "normal" pregnancy, I've followed the classic pregnant-lady symptoms to a T. First trimester: fatigued, nauseous, and severely crabby. Check. Second trimester: lack of symptoms other than a growing mid-section, renewed energy, and glowy-baby-dust happiness. Check.

During Week 15, we saw a perinatal doctor. It was recommended to us by our fertility doctor that we have an amniocentesis done. There are no direct correlations between birth defects from IVF (well, there are plenty of inconclusive arguments regarding that), but we are actually considered "IVF-ICSI" (pronounced ick-see) which puts us at a teeny-tiny bit more slight at risk for potential problems, more specifically, Down Syndrome. I never really discussed ICSI (Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection) when we did it, because for once, this isn't an issue with me. It's a sperm thing. To make doubly sure that the sperm broke the egg and fertilized on its own to grow into embryos, we had a special procedure where the doctor put Mike's sperm into a needle and injected it directly into my egg. It worked. But clearly, that's never been a problem before either. At least 4 times. 

ANYWAY. Before it actually worked, one would say I'd become a wee bit obsessive-compulsive regarding all things IVF. My perinatal doctor took a look at my chart and said, "Ah! I see you had several graduate courses in infertility". Um, homie, I GOT MY PhD IN IT. Recognize. 

Now that I've achieved what I wanted, I'm struggling with research. There is literally an article about every speck of pain, symptom, and potential problem during pregnancy. They all mean impending miscarriage or my kid will have birth defects, basically. And when you start to read said articles, they start contradicting themselves. Pretty much, every single pregnant person that ever lived is different, therefore, the things I read aren't worth it to me to investigate. I don't like contradictory. I like straight-up facts. The facts I found about amniocentesis were scary, so we went into the perinatal center with shall I say, a shady outlook. 

Once we were called back, I had my very first on-the-belly ultrasound. Up to this point, all of them have been vaginal. This was very reassuring to me; it meant my kid had grown enough to be seen without a doctor digging around inside. The tech spent like, 45 minutes checking every single part of the baby. It was the best experience I've ever had. We've been under a gray cloud since my confirmed pregnancy test (and I'm sure it'll still be floating around until we actually have a live birth). After seeing the human we actually created move around, blink, wave, cross his ankles, well, there just aren't any words!! I hadn't been emotional about finally being pregnant up until the point when I could actually count five fingers on each hand and hear the tech say test after test  "all clear" or "perfectly normal", therefore no need for further testing. It was an incredibly moving experience. 

Then the tech asked if we wanted to know the gender. DUUUUHHHH. Do you know how long it will take Mike and I to decide on a name? We'll need at least 5 months to do that. She flicked the screen over from the top of the head view to the between the legs view. And there in all it's glory, was the most perfect little penis you've ever seen. (Let's not get pervy, that's my little boy we're speaking of for God's sake). 

When you're a girly-girl like myself, you spend your life dreaming of your wedding, your kid's name, and all the ways you're going to girlify your own little girl. While I realize I've known what the gender is from the very beginning, I still had a glimmer of hope for PINK. So when reality hits and you're staring at boy parts on the screen and there's no chance of mistaking THAT, it's a rude awakening. At least it was for me. There were visions of me in my kitchen with a 5-year-old running through the back door with a bucket full of frogs yelling, "Look, Mommy", followed by me fainting and the kid getting worried and knocking over the bucket and all the frogs jumping out all over me and the kitchen floor. I saw me throwing down at a little league game because somebody hit my kid with a ball. I saw Mike with a mini-Mike beside him peeing off my front porch because, God forbid, it would take too much time to walk 10 feet to the bathroom right inside the door. And I saw me writing letter after letter to all children's clothing companies because OMG have you seen how boring little boy clothes are?! 

These were the thoughts running through my head as I lay there on the bed. Meanwhile, Mike has fist-pumped the air fourteen times to the point he has pulled a muscle, has shot off confetti in all corners of the room, started passing out champagne and cigars to random nurses, and has sent off an application to the Green Bay Packers Training Camp to pre-enlist our child for some sort of NFL-related future. 

Needless to say, some of us are beyond ecstatic with the news of our gender reveal. And some of us are...adjusting. I know you're thinking, "She should be thankful for whatever she gets" and you're completely right. But let's be honest, women are partial to girls and men are partial to boys. It's human nature. Or maybe its just my nature? In the end, you love WHATEVER it will be just as much as you would have loved the other gender. It can't go unsaid that I haven't had visions of sweet boy cuddles when he's sleepy or him running to me when he couldn't have his way with his Daddy.

Plus, let us not forget I've got 9 babies on ice. One of them is just BOUND to be a girl...