My Labour Story: Part 4... My Heart Breaks

I had a great visit with a friend tonight, and I got to recalling a part of my labour story... I know I haven't finished it on here, and it's been intentional. I feel like it was traumatic and it hurts to think about. I wanted to document the story so I would always remember the emotion... how things happened and the details. I don't honestly think I would forget, but I know the mind has the powerful ability to block out the bad things to trick us into further procreation. Ha.


Anyway, if you haven't read the first parts, you can find:
Part One HERE
Part Two HERE
Part Three HERE.


I follow the Badass Breastfeeder on Facebook, and she shared the following photo. It got me thinking that I NEED to tell this part of the story. To gain some kind of acceptance and closure to how things went down.

It really is true.

I just re-read part three to refresh my own mind. And while I am F_CKING HILARIOUS, I also feel sick inside revisiting that night. But here goes. (The things I do for you guys... hehe).


I was pushing and pumping my pain pump thing. The nurse somehow got approval to let me keep using the pain pump because I was feeling things so much but still pushing despite it all. She really was great. Alice, I thank you.


Do you remember the monitors I talked about in Part Three? They showed both the baby's and my heart rate. What I couldn't see in my insane state of determination was that the baby's heart rate was sitting just over 200. Not a good thing. I also remember the Obstetrician commenting that her head felt swollen, and that was also not a good thing.


The Hubs could see the monitor, and after all the pushing, he could tell that something wasn't right.

The doc had come back in, and it was then that he said he believed it best to use the vacuum to help get the baby out. I had heard horrific stories of forceps deliveries, and I really really didn't want that. It was unspoken that if things didn't move along soon, I would need to have a C-section.


As you all know quite well by now, I am a huge wuss and I probably would STILL be recovering today if I'd been forced into the C-section. I heal sloooowly and always have complications. It's kind of my thing.


So I prayed to the vagina gods to spare me lifelong disfigurement and I agreed to the vacuum. The doc said it should be fairly easy to get her out with it, along with my pushing. He casually asked the nurse if they should call "peds" (pronounced peeds, meaning pediatric docs). He played it so cool. So did she. She said "probably". I had no idea that my baby was in danger and that I needed to get her out. NOW. Like, NOW NOW. She made a call, but it didn't register in my brain.


I commend the Hubs for staying calm and supportive. I can only imagine how scared and helpless he must have felt knowing there was absolutely NOTHING he could do to help the baby or change things for the better. He did the best thing he could have, by staying calm and essentially pretending he knew nothing. For that, I thank him. I had been the calm one throughout the start, but he was clutch when I needed him. Had he started to panic, I would have lost my shit and things could have ended much, much differently.


Now, a lot of moms will tell you that after enough hours of pushing, you won't give a shit who sees your boobs, your lady parts, and it won't matter if you poo all over the walls. Surprisingly, I was okay with the nurse (though I would have preferred to have wiped my own butt if given the choice... damn huge belly and peeing laying down...), and I eventually was comfortable with the male OB I had.  I was not okay with students, I was not okay with shitting myself (though if it would have helped the baby I would have). I thought that we were still smooth sailing.


Then 4 more doctors entered the room. I specifically remember trying to cover my lady parts with my hands, WHILE MY LEGS WERE UP ON A BAR, mid-push as the OB was trying to Dyson out little Baby D. Yes, apparently I was still a bit self conscious, but also taken aback by the new viewing section of my labour.


The room was set up in such a way that there was a table across from where I was laying, where they test the baby's reactions (APGAR score) and clean baby up before handing back to mom. These doctors quietly began setting up, not saying a word, besides whispering with the nurse. I remember feeling totally confused and starting to feel nervous. I didn't think this was standard operating procedure, but I was totally exhausted and relatively vulnerable.


I asked who the male doctor was. I don't remember if the OB answered me or not.


I kept pushing. I may have been crying, I don't remember.


I remember that Baby D got closer to freedom, and then the worst burning pain I've ever felt took over my loins. I may have sworn a curse word or two, which was pretty tame for me considering I hadn't really before that.


And then she was out.


All day we heard as other babies were born around us in the nearby rooms. Sweet, frantic little newborn cries as they were thrust into the bright, loud scary world. The same sound in each room.


My baby made no such sound. She made no sound at all. The OB held her up, and I still can see her little white limp body in his hands. No noise. No sign of life. No sign of anything.


I asked if she was okay. No one spoke. I raised my voice. I asked if she was alive. I started to yell, asking if she was breathing, if she was okay. No one spoke.


The team of doctors took her to that table, and surrounded her as they worked. I couldn't see her at all.


I remember the OB casually mentioning that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around both legs, and somewhat tangled. I remembered thinking that explained a lot because no one could seem to figure out how she was positioned in me (my bump looked quite weird and they needed a bedside ultrasound to figure it out the day before).


The OB wasn't a jerk. He wasn't dismissive. He was just incredibly calm and I think trying to get me to simmer down. But not hearing anything was just awful.


There was no crying, no coughing.


I was stuck on the delivery table while the doctor started stitching up all that had been burning. I could feel the stitches and I remember he had to give me another needle with extra freezing there so he could do his handy work.


I felt so helpless and so so scared. I was certain she was dead. The little squirmy ball of baby inside of me for the past 8 months came out silent and still. I was starting to go into shock.


My baby still wasn't making any noise. I asked the Hubs over and over what was going on. It was kind of a blur, but I remember that feeling of being trapped on the table and feeling so powerless.


At one point they asked the Hubs to come over, and I think he then cut the cord.


Then, I heard some kind of sound, and I think the Hubs said she was ok. I didn't believe him.


Then this little, sweet, monkey of a girl was passed to me. She was wrapped in a towel. I don't know if I asked the Hubs to take her photo, or if he did it on his own. I remember the flash went off and the team of doctors actually shouted/scolded him, even though it was accidental.


I held her for all of 45 seconds, and then she was whisked away.

My first few second with her. Looking at this brings back the disbelief, fear, and pain. I remember thinking she looked so beautiful and so perfect.

She didn't get skin to skin contact.
I didn't get to try to nurse her.
I didn't get to feel her sweet little newborn skin on my chest, or get to feel her heart beating.
I didn't get to shower her with the love I had.


They took her away. And that was it.
I didn't understand. I wanted to see her, I needed to see her. The doctor finished stitching, and the nurse told me I had to stay laying down.


The Hubs didn't know what to do. I was hysterical and she was leaving, so I told him to go to her. To go with her. I didn't want her to die alone if she was going to die.


It all felt like an awful dream. It didn't feel like I had a baby. I remember the doctor cleaning up... I had bled quite a bit. I remember the spot light that had been on me was turned off. I was told to rest. It felt in my heart that my little girl was dying in some hospital room near me, and that I wouldn't see her again.


At that point I'm pretty sure that the Hubs knew she was stable, but in my state of shock I couldn't understand that.


I remember trying to rest, and then insisting that I needed to see her. I have no idea how much time had passed. I know the Hubs was there for part of it, and the nurse was trying to get him to sleep in the chair there with me. But he was also with the baby. It is all mixed up in my mind.


The nurse said I could go to her in the Intensive Care Unit if I could walk to the bathroom. I got to the bathroom, and once I tried to sit down, I remember shaking so violently and shuddering so hard that I smacked my head off the shower and almost hit the floor. I've heard of women "getting the shakes" after labour and medication, but this was more seizure-like than I ever could have guessed.


I was in incredible pain and so unbelievably cold. The nurse barely stopped me from face planting on the tile floor. I had no control over my body.


It took her and the Hubs to get me into a wheelchair to return the 10 feet I needed to pass to get back to the bed. At that point she told me there was no way I could see the baby. I remember crying so hard. I was certain that I was going to die. I know that probably sounds quite stupid and dramatic, but I had nothing left in me and my body was turning on me entirely. I had been awake for a long time, with no food, in shock, and completely out of control.


The pregnancy felt like an illusion. I had no baby. I was confused and weak and so tired. I remember wanting the Hubs to be with her, and being so sad and scared that I was dying and that I wouldn't get to see or hold my baby again.


Around 6am or so, I think, we were moved up to a room on the maternity ward. I remember crying, sick that I wasn't with my girl, and Alice patted me on the head and told me to rest, that I would see my baby soon. Alice was just so sweet and kind and rational throughout.


I wanted to hug her and thank her and cry on her shoulder, but I was too weak to do anything but lay on my side in the fetal position and whisper thank you to her through my tears. I clearly remember the Hubs giving her a big hug and thanking her immensely for her help. I remember feeling so glad and thankful that he did because I couldn't, and I remember feeling so much love towards him for being so candid and sincere with her. I know he appreciated all she did for us.


We tried to sleep. Our neighbours in the room were loud jerkfaces.

I will post about my first real meeting with my baby next. But this is crazy long.

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The I'm-Pretty-Sure-I-Didn't-Cup-His-Balls Massage Experience (First World Problems)

I have no time. I really don't. My time is at an utmost premium now. If I have some time when the baby is asleep, or out with Daddy for a bit, I need to plan for it, schedule it, and maximize the hell out of it.

Phone calls and Skype are sheer luxury. I decided to just call my Mom and Dad to chat the other day, despite an unhappy baby, and I moved into the next room. (Don't worry, the Hubs was with her, I didn't actually abandon her and leave her with the dogs or anything). And she crawled for real for the first time. That's what happens when I step away. I miss important things with my baby.

I digress.

So, after much planning, thinking, hoping and aching (muscles, not loins, people), I scheduled an evening massage so that the Hubs would be home with Baby D, and I could go get some of this I'm-tired-and-slumpy posture pain, neck pain, back pain, and general muscle blah-ness revitalized.

I had to book two weeks ahead. The anticipation was killing me. I even booked with a DUDE, on the advice of my chiropractor (also a luxury - my last appointment consisted of both her and I trying to calm the baby's cries, as I rocked her in the car seat with one outstretched arm while the chiro TRIED to adjust me). I think I left feeling worse.

So, onto the massage. A wispy guy, quite thin (WARNING SIGN - how's this dude going to beat the hell out of me sufficiently?) greeted me and we proceeded to the treatment room.

Now, I am fat. It's true. I'm still 50 pounds heavier than the day I found out I was pregnant. I will detail another post on that in the future, but let's just say anyone around me appreciates a dimly lit room. Especially when even XL underwear can't contain my crack and all-that-is the junk in my trunk.

Nope, this dude preferred intense fluorescent light. Okay.

Tucks the sheet into said underwear. We both know my crack is still hanging out, looking to make small talk. Epic. With every sweeping motion on my back, I can feel my love handles and butt just bouncing about.

It was mixed parts I-feel-so-gross-I-want-to-curl-up-and-disappear and... no, actually it was pretty much just that.

It was all soft and Swedish-like. I am a masochist at heart and I need lots of pressure and knots to be WORKED OUT, MAWFAHCKAH. This dude felt like he was swiffering my fat. I asked for more pressure. He didn't really change anything.

Within the first 10 minutes, I nearly cried. I waited and looked forward to this so badly. I needed some pain relief. I was about to lose an hour of my baby-free time on a sad, pathetic massage. I wanted to just ask him to stop, say let's forget it, but the cheapskate in me knew that I'd have to pay either way. So I laid there, bummed to the max (both literally and figuratively) and hoped it would improve.

It did not. It got worse.

This guy had no hand rest below the face-holder hole. So I put my arms at my sides. The table left little room for my arms (or rather, my wide torso left little room for my arms). And that's when I'm sure it happened. As he was leaning in to do his trademark swiffer move, I'm quite sure that his junk landed squarely in my upturned right palm.

I told myself I'm sure I'm just imagining. Just relax. And it probably isn't considered cheating on the Hubs if there is both sheet and pants-protection between my palm and the dude's junk. Amirite?

Then it happened again.

I actually felt revolted and full body shuddered. He stopped swiffering and asked if I was okay. I said yes and tried to glue my arms and hands to the sides of my body. You know, total relaxation.

I shouldn't really be surprised, considering my track record. I blogged about some bad experiences back in the day on this post here, and also on this one.

Before the massage started, I had asked if he could massage hips. I know some therapists aren't comfortable because it usually means manipulating stuff through your butt cheeks. He asked why they were hurting and I said mostly from carrying the baby in a carrier.

Well, throughout we had a definite language barrier. This became painfully clear when he massaged my MUFFIN TOP. I guess he thought that was my hips? Jesus I just wanted him to stop and go away. No woman needs to feel her muffin top moving around like that. That ACKNOWLEDGMENT of the fat there. No, let's all pretend there is nothing to see here, and move on!

Ahhh, anyway, after the longest time it was finally over. And to just sweeten the experience, as I was getting dressed afterwards, I had to use my typical force to get my too-small jeans over my too-quickly-expanding arse. The ultimate feel good wave rushed over me as the belt loop I was gripping ACTUALLY RIPPED OUT of my jeans, unable to overthrow the force of my arse-resistance.

I left the room to pay, head hanging in shame and defeat.

I wish I looked this good...

But not before two (new, wrapped) super-plus tampons fell out of my purse, in front of the two older men in the waiting room. What's that you ask? Why, yes, I *DID* stomp on them as I fumbled for my credit card! No, no I *DIDN'T* realize what they were or that they were mine until one of the men wouldn't meet my gaze as I said hello and I happened to look down and see them.

Gawd, I feel so attractive right now.... Pass me another Coke. And I seem to be craving muffins now, too.....


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A Wonderful Moment

I had fully anticipated writing about 6 snarky, embarrassing posts since the last one or two. I always tend to write them in my head when I am out somewhere, or when I am rocking the baby to sleep. I never seem to do it. Or justify spending the time.

But this afternoon I had such a wonderful moment, I just have to document it here. I don't want to forget it, and I always mean to put pen to paper in the baby book or her notebook, and then I always forget.

Baby D has been fairly unhappy - whining a lot, not letting me out of her sight. Teething, tired, hungry, and who knows. Often, when different or new people are around, she is quite smiley or at least not totally miserable, and the other person has no idea what it's been like for weeks in and out of her being so hard to soothe.

But... this afternoon...

Earlier, she woke up from her nap around 11ish. A touch unhappy, but willing to giggle if I jumped in her direction or made funny sounds. Her smiling was encouraging and it made me smile.

I showered fast (just the vitals, as us new moms seem to do), and she was getting impatient. I got dressed, got her dressed, took a short movie of her and a few pics. I had intended on going to get bulk stuff at Costco - I've been meaning to go for a few weeks, and I am antsy to get it done.

I knew I'd have to time it right, and hope she'd last. She usually gets upset in there, but The Hubs hasn't gotten his membership card, and I refuse to go on the weekends. So that means bringing her in the day if I want to get the latest sale.

I had a feeling she wouldn't do well. And to be quite blunt, I am so sick of not enjoying her; I try to soothe her upset while I run around the house trying (fairly unsuccessfully) to clean up, wash dishes, do laundry and tend to the dogs. I am always behind on house work, the clutter builds, yet I am trying and stressing and worrying what The Hubs will think when he sees the state of the place at the end of the day.

I decided to fuck it.

I wanted to enjoy my baby this afternoon. I got out her light snowsuit. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I got her bundled up in my Ergo carrier, got the dog harnessed, and we walked outside. We talked about the trees. We walked up the path and talked about dog poo. And how much Mommy loves her Baby. And we talked about the sounds of nature, and how pretty it is, and how peaceful it can be if you just stop and take it in.

On our walk today... she looks unimpressed, but we had fun. I enjoyed my baby immensely today.

We stopped and listened to the water rushing past in the stream. I could see her little blue eyes taking in the trees, the moss, the rocks. I could see her look to where I was pointing... where the birdies were chirping. When we started walking again, she squawked at me to stop. I did, and she quieted and listened to the water and the birds again.

It was beautiful. Even the dog was relatively good.

We walked home. We had some lunch, and she ate some cheddar and puree like a rock star. She smiled when I tickled her feet. It made me feel so happy. We even went without a bib and avoided total shirt destruction.

I knew she was ready for sleep again. We went to her room, and I nursed her with the little, dwindling milk supply I have left. She stared in wonder at the sunshine as it made a new pattern on my shoulder, through the slats of the blinds. She smiled.

She wasn't falling asleep right away on the pillow, which was unusual for her if she is pooped. So I turned her, facing the same way as me, and we rocked together. She touched her toes, and I put little kisses all over the side of her face, her head and her hair, and her ears. I didn't hold her tightly to be still, I didn't change anything.

She chewed on my fingers a bit, and talked a little. Kept making the "mumumum" sound. And then she did something totally beautiful.

She turned her head to me, mouth wide open, to give me a series of Baby D kisses. It was so incredibly sweet, my heart nearly exploded in my chest.

And I thanked her and kissed her head.
And then she turned and gave me Baby D kisses for a second time!

After that, she rolled her head to the side, and fluttered her eyes as she fell asleep. She stirred awake, and I whispered in her ear that I will love her always and forever.

Then she closed her eyes and was off to sleep.
I rocked her for a while still while the tears of gratitude, joy and love spilled down my cheeks. Her little toes still, her little hand wrapped over my arm. I am so lucky to be her Mamma.

It's the moments like these that are a reminder that it's not always hard. That sometimes the house is better off being a mess. That a Mamma should sometimes (if not always) just trust her gut and choose to enjoy her baby while she can.

And now she's already awake... that was a fast nap.

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Winning. I Think.

Hey, like me on Facebook, dammit. I'm pathetic on there.

I'm pretty sure I'm winning at life when all in the same day I:

• Chew the Vitamin C from the kitchen counter that is, in fact, not at all chewable.
• Put the yogurt away long after breakfast. In the dry pantry.
• Assume my coffee cup is empty and casually carry it downstairs to the kitchen, only to discover it was not empty and I've left a trail of vanilla-hazelnut-carpet-stainyness down the ENTIRE F_CKING carpeted staircase.
• Lay down to empty the washing machine filter to see water rush out... and moments later feel my socks become saturated (5' away)... and THEN see that the laminate floor, wood trim, cable box, and associated power cords have been flooded with water.

Stop hatin'.
This can be yours one day, too.

Just hit yourself over the head a few times and piss the Universe off. Nothin' doin'.


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My Sleeping Child: For Baby D

My Sleeping Child

My sleeping child
My tired, sweet little baby

Asleep, so peacefully, breathing lightly on my chest
Sometimes restlessly until a few more rocks and whispery kisses put you at ease

My sleeping child
So full of life
Potential
Inner beauty
Outer beauty that I can't help but praise

Your little hands, flexing ever-so-slightly as we rock together
Your fingers, sometimes tickling my ribs and making me smile in the glow of the night light.

My sleeping child
Your quiet breathing so near to my heartbeat
Calms my soul
The most quiet, soothing whisper in the dark of night
I have to resist kissing your sweet little face awake

My sleeping child
The reason I am on this earth
My reason for being
Your sweetness and innocence filling my heart with overwhelming joy



My sleeping child
So perfect
So darling
So free of doubt, guilt, shame, sadness

My sleeping child
How I hope you will grow to know how loved you are
By Mommy
and Daddy
and every other family member who knows you and sees the wonderful girl you are

My sleeping child
How I promise to be the best parent I can be
To learn as you learn
To strive for patience and calmness
To guide you gently and with understanding and love

My sleeping child, rest well
Dream of colours and smiles and love and yummy milkies
Of doggies and kisses and snuggles and naked bum time

My sleeping child
How I love you so



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I Should Be Sleeping...

I am tired. Ever-so-tired.

Yet I am awake, and debating whether or not to finish this glass of red wine.

It came from a box.

I'm a classy   ho   woman.

You guys have NO IDEA how many blog posts I have written in my head as I have been trying to sleep. Or not sleeping. Or nearing sleep. Or feeding the baby with my ever-deflating boobs.

Yet I never seem to make it here to publish ANY OF THAT GENIUS content.

Things like my dog randomly shitting on the floor. My child randomly puking on my chest. My husband randomly getting me pregnant again.

Hahaha, just kidding, that last one is disgusting. And also untrue.

I seem to be living in a world where meals are luxury and taking a poop is only negotiable depending on the mood of the kid.

Don't get me wrong, lil blue eyes here is totally worth it. It's just an adjustment. And I may have been selfish and selected this pic because I don't look horrid in it. She is adorable, if not startled a bit by the flash, lol.

And I have sort of turned into the mom-blog, much to my dismay, simply because that wasn't what I set out to do here (not that there is anything wrong with mom blogging, but my existing.. uh... customer base? Following? Mom and Dad who still read this? Probably aren't interested in my such mundane adventures.)

I feel like it would be really beneficial for me to get back to the what-the-f_ckery of my posts of days past. But time is at a serious mothers_cking premium, because I can never seem to get my shit together (or the laundry done, for that matter). All I can do is try, but I SUCK at follow through.

How was your Christmas?

I got a Keurig, and I am so happy that I will hopefully not make a shitty cup/pot of coffee again. My poor new mom friends have been subjected (more than once) to me losing count of the spoonfuls of coffee grinds in my old machine, to horrendous results.

Anyway, I hope to make it back more often, even if that means less sleep. I got a new fangled iPad mini for Christmas (total luxury splurge) and I hope to find a program where I can draw on it with a stylus (anyone know of such an app?). You will all be subjected to my shit animations, like this old classic.

Okay, so this post was about nothing, but I am interested to hear about your holidays. You know, if anyone else out there still reads me.

Happy Yule Logs, etc.


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Expectations: Dinner

I'd like to share how my expectations have evolved (devolved? disappeared?) over the past few years.

What I'd Expect Of A "Nice Dinner":

2010:

Perhaps a fancy restaurant by the water somewhere. Mood lighting that makes me look half do-able to the hubby (though, if you asked him, I'm sure sunlight, flourescent, candle, lamp, overhead ceiling fan, and flash lighting would all be acceptable on that front. He's easy to please, lol). A server who flings out the FABRIC napkin on one's lap (if the concept didn't creep me out and I didn't grab it lightning-ninja-fast-style and place it on my own lap first). At least a half bottle of wine to split, at the obscenely marked up price at whatever overpriced restaurant we were at for the special occasion. A starter salad, with difficult-to-pronounce fancy lettuces and stinky cheese. Gluten filled deliciousness for a main course (to be passed with tremendous bloating and gas the next day or two in private, at my leisure). The oft-disappointed, overly-inflated restaurant dessert (Horizons, I'm looking at you, $17 for a banana split? Fo rizzle?). Nicely, leisurely stretched out to fill the evening.


2013 (45 minutes ago):

A gluten-free microwaveable frozen dinner (We have too many friends and outings these days - no two day private farting opportunities any longer, nor the luxury of feeling like crap by choice when dealing with an infant all day and night long, every day), eaten by the dimmed light of the laptop, on the floor, beside my bed where a sleeping baby lies. Also? Eaten cold still (between dashes down to the kitchen to throw it in the microwave, and the return sprint upstairs to make sure said baby isn't smothering herself in the comforter, or rolling off the bed in her sleep), and eaten quickly, so she doesn't detect my absence and/or awaken prematurely from her nap.

Napkin? I don't need no stinkin' napkin. My shirt is a battleground of puke and BO, anyway.

Dessert? A gnawed off fingernail edge, as I lay beside her worrying about the messy house, the to-do list, and the frustration of not being able to nap beside her while my mind runs a mile a minute.

I still consider this a win, since I actually INGESTED dinner. And before 10pm at that. I'm practically Charlie Sheen winning ALL OVER THIS MAWFACKAH.

My, how times have changed!

Though, I still plan on having a honkin' glass of wine later on tonight. You betchur ass I am.
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Starbucks Is Ridiculous

That's right, I said it.

Now wipe your non-fat, no-whip, no water, half caff latte foam off your nose and listen up.

I feel like such an utter idiot when I walk up to order coffee at Starbucks.

First of all, Y U NO HAVE NORMAL SIZES STARBUCKS!?

Y U MAKE ME FEEL DUMB?!?

I know it's supposed to be like an authentic cafe experience, with the barista and fancy Italian-ish names, but, let's be honest here, you started in Seattle.

And the worst part is that when I just ask for "the smallest size" or "a medium", the barista almost ALWAYS shoots back some foreign-ish, totally meaningless word back at me. I glaze over, much like a terrified deer in headlights. I usually explain at this point that, well, I'm not sure. Which cup is that?

*DERP*.

I can already hear the snickers of the seasoned coffee-goers behind me in line. It's like I'm wearing a neon sign labelling myself "STARBUCKS NEWBIE. BE GENTLE."

I ask to see if I can get something without milk (since I am currently off of dairy for the baby, and her rapidly pooping bum). "Can I get it with soy milk, though?" I ask, fearing the barista may lean over and slap my foul mouth for requesting such an atrocity.

Instead, she gives me a smile that says "Oh, you pathetic little soul, OBVIOUSLY you can. You PAY for crazy requests here. It makes you feel special!"

I'm not sure... do they only have one kind of coffee? Is there decaf drip coffee, for us elderly fogies who shouldn't consume caffeine after 3pm if we want to have any hope in hell of sleeping? (The answer to that around these parts of BC is that, no, they DON'T have decaf coffee which is weird. Decaf Americanos are always offered instead, at a higher price. They are watered down decaf espresso and I personally think they taste like poo, and I'd rather lick my dog's butt. Probably).

Anyway, if I have to drink the caffeine, I want a nice dark roast. I always ask "Do you have a dark roast?" and I never get an answer, just that weird, knowing barista smile again. It almost feels like I ask about 6 questions at the register, yet leave even more confused than when I came in.

Hmph.

So, I finally figure out the puzzle, (Not really, but I order SOME type of hot beverage [I assume]) and ask for hot water in a cup to warm up Baby D's milkies.

We sit. I warm. She eats. I drink my coffee.

And I listen to the throng of people coming through. And here is where it gets even more odd.

I listen to people bark out orders like the barista is THEIR BITCH. I mean, total cool ignorance, haughty even. I've never ever heard more complex beverage orders in my life. And EXPENSIVE ones at that!

One lady ordered herself a tea (I think) that consisted of about 6 special thingies, and the two small children she was with got some soy hot chocolate specialty drinks. They were very young. And her order was over $13. SAY WHAT?! I'm pretty sure she ordered something chai, with no water, with extra foam, with possibly the tears of an angel mixed with a smattering of sugar-free methadone. Something like that.

I told the Hubs that Baby D gets no-name brand hot chocolate out of a packet when she's older, and she's gonna love it. F_ck this $6 hot chocolate bizznazz. You know the kids will have that liquid gold spilled before they even get to the car.

Another lady bought 8 vanilla bean scones. I'm pretty sure she had to take out a second mortgage on her home.

But yeah... so after this weird social observation, I came home and relayed it to the Hubs. He was equally perplexed at the complexity of some of the drinks I spoke of.

Fast forward two days, and we walked down to the Starbucks not too far from our house. I run through my gamut of confused-question asking clarifications.

"Can I please get a caramel brulee latte please?" (Already I feel pretentious, those are fancy-soundin' words, y'all).

I also say it with a lilt in my voice in case I am pronouncing it wrong.

"In the largest size, please?"

She replies "Venti?"
I shrug and nod.

"But could I please get it with soy milk instead of regular milk? I can't have dairy."
"Oh and would it be possible to just get it half decaf stuff? And half regular?"

She says some words that don't make sense.
I nod again.

"Half sweet?" She says.
What?
Who me?
Huh?

"Did you want it half sweet, too, or just half caf?"

I explain I didn't even know half-sweet was an option, but no, thanks, I want full sweet. This ass doesn't keep its commanding size with half-sweet. Word.

Then she asked if whip was "still okay?". I had to pause and think for a moment. Whip... hmm... are we talking like some kinky sexual coffee stuff? I drag my mind out of the gutter (albeit briefly) and realize she PROBABLY means whipped cream. Unless she winks at me.

I wait a moment. No wink.
Whipped cream it is.

I clarify that I can't have that either.

I FINALLY get my drink. Don't even get me started on how many cup lids I have to try and fail at before I finally find the one that fits my cup.

I go back outside and reunite with the Hubs and the dog (baby's been on my chest and embarrassed at my lack of Starbucks-lingo skills all along).

He asks me what I got. I stop myself from rambling through my entire series of questions... and then I realize I am just as bad as everyone else. I have BECOME ONE OF THEM.

Carefully, I explain that I ordered:

"A half caff, venti caramel brulee latte, no dairy, soy milk, no whip."

The Hubs smirks.

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Is There A Failing Olympics?

I know we've already discussed my efficiency and mastering of napping. Well, at least the old me.

But I have another issue on my mind. Is there a failing Olympics?

A real, true, gathering of the failing minds and bodies of all of us souls out in the world who seem to suck at all they do?

Because, I hate to say it again and rub your noses in it... but... I'd OWN that shit.

My newest (and wonderful) Mommy friends (who may or may not read this) seem to have it together. And while we talk about this and they do explain that isn't the case, I still feel like what the f_ck is wrong with me?!?

I don't make my hubby dinner.
Like... ever.

I got all nesty and tried a few recipes back in mid-pregnancy. I gave the poor bastard hope. Then dashed it all every day since then.

I don't even grocery shop any more. I am always with the kiddo. I have started to sort of accomplish laundry (two full flights of stairs while putting the baby somewhere away from my nutty dogs). You know, if carrying the hamper downstairs counts for one day. And maybe sorting it on the basement floor two days later. And then MAYBE remembering to put a load in the washing machine a day or two after that. And it's a damn miracle if I switch that sweet load over into the dryer on the same day. (hehehe "sweet load" made me giggle.)

Actually returning it upstairs and folding it is just going to cause me a panic attack, so let's just say laundry takes about a week to get done. I'm pretty sure we have lots of floor space in our bedroom for the sole purpose of clean laundry storage. Right? Uh.. yeah.

So, yeah, I'm a domestic hero/goddess. OBVIOUSLY.

But my friends... my friends bake cookies. And homemade numminess. And large family dinners. And they knit and/or sew and/or crochet and/or win at life. And they go to the store. And they shop for things. And drive places without (I assume) having a scream-filled SUV of unhappy teething baby misery.

I bought a cross-stitch starter kit geared to eight year olds to bring to our Mommy crafts day tomorrow. (Shut up, don't judge, that frog will GLOW IN THE MOTHERF_CKING DARK, YO). These ladies can sew gorgeous blankets and I have a sneaking suspicion that this frog is going to own me and I will throw it out before the afternoon is done. You know, assuming all goes well.

I know I'm too hard on myself. I just thought this life-is-crazy-there-is-no-order business was supposed to end after the insane newborn stage. But we didn't get that memo, me and Baby D (name withheld).

Other moms apply nicely done make-up. They dry their hair and their babies don't seem to want to rip it out like mine ALWAYS does. They look FANTASTIC and rock bikinis to mom and baby swimming (which they damn well should! Good for them!). They don't seem chained to their nurseries like I do. They vacuum. They might even DUST. (I heard that's a thing?)

And you know what? They don't seem to judge me. They don't say "wow, you really DO suck!". They encourage and laugh alongside and speculate that things will get easier for me and it will happen. I need to stop being so mean to myself. Ah well.


I'm just always so serious.

Ooooh oooh eeee eeeee aaaah aaaah aaaah. You going to eat that flea or shall I help myself?

Clearly.

What do the people around you do that make you doubt your fit-ness for things? What event would you win gold at in the FAIL Olympics?

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Insomnia Breeds Insomnia

In the days of my youth, had there been a napping Olympics, I'd have owned that shit hands down. I mean, epic levels of Michael Phelps gold-age. A 20 minute nap was a joke; you'd best give me a minimum of three hours or I could possibly throat punch you.

Ah, the good ole days.

The days of yore.

The days I could sleep.

Now, you all know I am a new mom. But this seems to be entirely independent of that.

Kiddo is sleeping and here I sit. Awake. Staring at the ceiling.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm almost always on my side or my tummy, so it's usually staring at the wall or the goddamn mocking/glaring numbers on the alarm clock.

Deep breathing just makes me dizzy.
I can't keep my mind focused enough to count down from 500.
If I count sheep, I inevitably start thinking about farms and factory farming and vegetarianism and blah blah blah.

Progressive muscle relaxation almost always leaves me with a kink in my neck, or the need to get up and stretch.

I really, REALLY suck at putting myself to bed.

.... and "if the baby doesn't need to eat for another ____ hours"

I do a list of things I need to get done the next day, then toss in the stress of knowing that I won't remember what those tasks are, and that even if I *do* remember, I probably won't have the time/energy/fortitude to get.that.shit.done.

And on the nights when I have the luxury of a dinner out, you bet your ass I am taking in a fountain Coke or Pepsi, and making good use of a free refill policy. You know, because I heard that copious amounts of caffeinated sugar do a body good.

Amirite?

So. Here I sit at 2am. My uterus hurts. My body is tired. My mind won't shut the f_ck up.

I suppose I will take comfort in the fact that I've managed to purchase a Halloween costume, lumbar pillow, Christmas present, milk cooler bag and cell phone cover online today. That is some type of lame ass accomplishment, right? (Hubby - if you are reading this, no, I have no idea what those charges are from ebay and that deal site. Nope. No idea. Carry on as you were).

How do you fall asleep when your mind is as active as Miley Cyrus' butt?

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That Moment: Feta

That moment when you are eating pizza, you look down and see some crumbled feta that you pop into your mouth... only to quickly discover it is, in fact, a chunk of your strawberry scented Lady Speed Stick deodorant.

Clutch.


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My Baby, The Dictator

It's true.

She rules with a teeny, tiny iron fist.

There is no negotiating with her, no reasoning - her word is the final word. Er... well, rather her coos, cries and screams are the final coos, cries and screams.

Pleading is futile. Begging will get you nowhere.
Fast.

She is drunk on power. (Technically "power" means "breast milk" in this instance)

She came into her powerful role by means of excessive force and violence (via my... well, you know).

Just stare into her fierce blue eyes and dare not bow down to her adorableness.

She mocks you by sticking out her tongue.

You are welcome.

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Holy Hell

There have been so many times I would like to blog, but things like keeping this tiny little human alive, fed, comforted and safe got in the way.

Dang responsibilities.

Haha, just kidding, motherhood is awesome.

Some things I've learned in the last 12 weeks:

- Water can, and does, feel like cutting razorblades on sensitive nipples. Either that, or the Hubs installed a Ginsu showerhead one of the times I was hospitalized.
- Yea, ONE of the times. I didn't realize that labour for me would mean SO MANY INFECTIONS post partum. And multiple hospital stays.
- I hate my OB. She sucks and let me go on with a bad urinary tract infection for TWO MONTHS that is now making me incredibly sick as I start antibiotics. AGAIN.
- Caffeine does get into breastmilk. And a baby who only power naps for 10 minutes is loveable, but exhausting for Mamma.
- I've only lost about 25 lbs of my 55+ pregnancy weight gain. I am the antithesis of sexy.
- This kid's current life goal is to rip out every last hair from my scalp. EVERY.LAST.HAIR. Motherhood has been comprised of constantly wet hair up in elastics, to save that painful tug. Man it hurts.
- I have the capacity to love more intensely, fiercely and unselfishly than I EVER thought possible. I would die for my little monkey if she needed me to. After I ripped the face off of whatever the threat was.

Out in BC you have to watch out for bears. But beware the even deadlier, more insane MAMMA BEAR. I'll f*ck you up.

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My Labour Story: Part Three... Phantom of The Opera Style

So they had the anesthesiologist come upstairs to poke a huge needle into my spine for the epidural. (I KNOW, right? Labour is so effing comfortable and AWESOME!). He kind of looked like Live Schrieber as he punctured my skin.

My first tip to a labouring woman: Ankle socks are the dumbest f_cking idea EVER, if you can only limply/minimally slide your leg(s) along bunched up sheets in bed. They WILL.NOT.STAY. And it will annoy the hell out of you!

Okay, so... antibiotic drip? Check.
Oxytocin to start whacked out contractions by 10am? Check
Epidural and delicious pain medicine to maintain  recover  create  sort of keep sanity? Che-- oh... wait a second...

Now they give you info sheets telling of the risks of an epidural during labour. They tell you every possible scenario as a just-in-case thing. I read that sometimes the medication can be patchy or lopsided. For me, that meant that ONLY MY RIGHT SIDE WAS FROZEN, people.

My left side didn't want to miss out on the party, so it decided to give a middle finger to the pain managing drugs, and allow me to continue to feel, ache and Charleston kick through the labour pains.

I think my first labour nurse (who was wearing PERFUME for eff's sake) didn't believe that I could feel my left side. Like this baby was just an elaborate ploy to get increase after increase of pain medicine. I can, however, confirm that lefty was totally moveable, usesable and ALIVE with feeling.

They would run ice up me to see where I could feel to. And that would be everywhere, thanks for asking. Then I would be given a suspicious glare. *sigh*

After trying to lay on the left side, and the nurses telling me conflicting info, and no numbness coming, Dr. Leiv Schrieber had to come back. He had to adjust the hole in my back to "redirect" the needle. Like it took a left turn at Albuquerque.

This wonderful adjustment essentially included a free partial back wax, as the adhesive dressings that covered half of my back were peeled off and re-applied. I was picking gummy adhesive boogers off my back for two weeks. (You know, in addition to the regular boogers that build up there and need removing).

From here on out there were hours of awkward small talk with my not-authentic first labour nurse. The hubs left at some point to let the dogs out and gather NORMAL GODDAMN SOCKS for me. My slide-y right leg was pissing me off because I could still feel that my sock was only half on. For some reason, he returned, which worked out well for me and the baby. It was his chance to bail. Ha.

I kind of consider myself a hero, in that I had enough feeling to tell the nurse when I needed to pee, and I could do it without a catheter. However, that being said, I had to do it on a bed pan because of righty, and had to be sprayed down with water and wiped by the nurse. It was both an amusingly proud moment, as well as a nice preview to my future days in the nursing home once this baby ships me off and out of her life. (I assume).

By the time afternoon had rolled around, I was in PAIN on lefty. It hurt. Holy hell, mad props to women who labour for hours with oxytocin and don't get an epidural. MAD PROPS.

There was one stretchy elasticized band that held a monitor that tracked baby's heart rate, and another that tracked mine. I think Satan himself was the architect of those bands because they were so goddamn itchy and scratchy that I could barely take it by the 23 hour mark. No, not the 2 to 3 hour mark, the 23 hour mark. Added to the comfort was that conductive gel they use that kept drying out and getting re-applied. Oh it was so nasty. I think I wore down my fingernails from all the scratching.



I just realized it looks like I'm giving you the finger.

I was given a pain pump, where I could push a little button to get a boost of pain meds. By the early evening, it was doing NOTHING for me. If I pushed it too early (before 15 minutes) it would do nothing, and I would feel unhealthily and incredibly sad and disappointed.

The shift changed at 7pm, I think, and I got the most amazing, fantastic, wonderful labour nurse at Royal Columbian Hospital, named Alice. She was so genuine, so efficient, warm and wonderful. Her and the Hubs kept me going through it all. I feel totally and completely grateful that she was my nurse. I need to find out her last name and get her a nice card and gift. She was so so so awesome.

She encouraged me to breathe through the contractions, and I have to admit I was a f_cking rock star when it came to that. Through the tears and the spitting up, I did it, and it really does help. All those years of yoga paid off for the breathing part, anyway. Not so much for the acrobatics later when delivering. I found the "crouching mama, hidden baby" position to not feel all that serene.

I couldn't eat. Could only take small sips of water, and I had a few Jolly Rancher candies over those 23.5 hours. I was tired. And I was dilating, but baby's head was facing the wrong way. I don't know which way that was, but she was twisted a bit... when I did start to push, it would start to turn the right way, then she would shoot back up my hoo-ha, to the safety of her placenta sleeping bag, rendering my pushing useless.

So the pushing did begin around 11pm.

In the prenatal video I watched, they said the only thing NOT to do during delivery is to hold your breath and push really hard during a contraction, because it can hurt ya.

Unfortunately, that's how they roll at RCH, so with every contraction, I had to take a deep breath, put my chin to my chest, and bear down with enough force to vaginally lift an imaginary tanker truck off a puppy (the puppy was real, though. Probably). THREE TIMES for every contraction. THREE M-EFFING TIMES.

The amount of energy required to do that was incredible. They said that it usually takes a first time mom an hour or two of pushing to get baby out. And for me, the doc checked and had me keep going after the first hour.

And the second hour.

And I was tired. And her head was still turned.

And then still at 2.5 hours (because I was "soo close").

And still, more, at the 3 hour mark.

I used a labour bar, holding my legs up in the air at the thighs. I sat on the bed, on a stool, balanced on the labour bar pushing. I flipped onto all fours and pushed backwards. I pushed and pushed and pushed. As far we know, I never pooped the entire time. YAY ME! The benefits of crippling pregnancy constipation couldn't even be ruffled by three hours of puppy lifting pushing!

And, still pushing at 3.5 hours.

And then shit went wrong. And the Hubs could see and I didn't realize it.

To be continued...

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My Labour Story: Part Two... Bitchy Nurse

Okay, so Part One is below.

We had been hoping that my in-laws would be able to drive to our place and take care of the dogs during our hospital stint. Thing is, I was in there 4 weeks before my due date, so no one was expecting it. My in-laws were in another province, and my mother-in-law was set to be staying a few more days to help out my sister-in-law. She had literally changed her return ticket the day before to extend her stay.

My MIL had even called to make sure I wasn't hospital bound. At the time, I wasn't, so it was all good. Turned out we needed to call them ASAP to see if they could make it back to help us out.

We were in the hospital assessment room. It was more of a group exam room - at least 5 beds laid out in close proximity, with the ever-so-private curtain between. I was grateful that I was the only one in there, though I do enjoy a good overhearing-about-others'-vagina-issues eavesdropping under normal circumstances.

The Hubs got on the phone to notify his parents and see who was coming back to BC, and when.

As an aside: I had no birth plan per se. I think mapping out a totally unpredictable scenario is a bit like intentionally setting yourself up for major disappointment. I figured that shit would get crazy at some point and either me or the Hubs would have to make some major decisions on the fly. That's how I roll. But I was specific about two things: no students, and no males wherever I was given the choice.

The Universe laughed at me, as it ended up being a male OB who delivered her. (Notably checking my cervix every 2 minutes to see where the baby was... and for those of you who aren't aware, "checking my cervix" is a nice way of saying "jamming his hand up my hoo-ha").

In truth, aside from the man-handling, he was a top notch doctor and he did right by me and Baby D.

Anyway, the bitchy nurse came back and said that the initial OB on duty wanted to send her MALE STUDENT to come and take my background info. I am horrible at stating my needs and wishes, and Hubs was on the phone. I had to tell her I wasn't comfortable with that (I had already told her about no students and no males). She said "Well, that's what the OB wants".

I told her again I wasn't okay with that.
She told me too bad.
I told her no, I was not okay with that.

She rolled her eyes and left me.

However - small win, the female OB ended up coming to us herself. PHEW. Glad that worked out.

No one could figure out how the baby was laying. It had been a source of major stress for me in the month + before - my other pregnant friends here had been shown how the babies were sitting, but I looked like I had a two-butted baby, and the movements made no sense with where a baby's limbs should be. After baffling my own OB, the nurse at ER a few weeks before, the nurse in labour & delivery, and the OB there, they decided to do a bedside ultrasound.

THANK GOODNESS baby was indeed head down. They said she looked like a heart in my belly. I was just so glad that we had a shot at a normal "natural" (read: through my hoo-ha) delivery. If the baby had been in a whacked out position, my only option would have been a c-section.

(You guys all know how I'd recover from THAT. Read: not well. Though, turns out a vaginal delivery still had lots of surprises and recovery for me as well).

The nurse was a total bitch when I told her that I knew I was GBS bacteria positive with the pregnancy. (It's a relatively common thing that affects preggers women). I was told I would need antibiotics when my water broke in order to keep the baby safe and greatly reduce the chances of passing infection on. The nurse told me there were no records and I "would have been swabbed".

I told her I was positive, it was from a pee test SUPER early in pregnancy, and that I was sure of it. I even knew the approximate date and the ordering doctor. She continued to not believe me and be a bitch. She told the OB I was "under the impression" that I was positive, but that there was nothing in the chart. After a quick review, and me reiterating the details of the date and findings to the OB, she found it in my chart. The nurse laughed it off and said she "read it but didn't see it". Bah.

I know people can make mistakes, but I understood it was important to get it started, and she just kept treating me like I had no idea what I was talking about.

So, my MIL changed her ticket to come back that afternoon, the Hubs was off the phone, the OB decided to induce me.

There was talk of putting some kind of baby-forcing-outage gel in my inner depths, but then they decided against it since my water had already broken and it could introduce some nasty shizz in there.

So... they decided to start me on Pitocin/Oxytocin (a drug that starts strong and/or more painful contractions) post-haste and start the delivery rolling. But because:
A) I'm a wuss
B) I have an existing pain condition
C) Inducing drugs cause massively painful contractions,  and
D) I'm a wuss
E) (see A and D)

they planned to start me on an epidural at the SAME time as the Oxytocin.

And here I am before the agony started:

You may notice my barf tray. You're welcome. Also? I can rock a muthaf_ckin' blue gown, yo.

To be continued...


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My Labour Story: Part One... No, I didn't pee myself, thanks.

I had been feeling overly sleepy all day. Had meant to Skype with a friend from Ontario, and ended up falling asleep in a chair a few times. I had finally cleaned up the miscellaneous items and boxes that were at the side of my bed since our move in February, and it took all the energy I had. I was 36 weeks pregnant that Friday. Babies are considered full term from 37 to 40 weeks.

I ended up laying back down and didn't get to Skype. The Hubs came home from work and we chatted for a bit and watched a bit of TV, but I had to come up to bed. I think I may have coloured for a bit, napped, read, napped, and just fought to get up to go the washroom. The poor Hubs ended up spending HOURS assembling a porch glider on the living room floor. He didn't end up in bed until 1:30am or so.

That weekend we were going to install the car seat, pack the hospital bags. Our hospital tour was scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday. The Universe laughed at us.

I had been to the washroom and was finally falling back into that crippling-hip-breast-pain side laying position on our shitty, faulty Kingsdown mattress from Sears (post to follow, but Sears sucks ass and their customer service is horrible). Sleep was light. And my water broke.

My immediate reaction: W.T.F.?

I hopped up (it was, quite possibly, the fastest I moved my entire pregnancy) and proceeded to penguin waddle to the bathroom (easy-to-clean tile floors and all) as the water continued. I think I passed my mucous plug. I tried to pee. And then I remembered I was supposed to note the time and sit down, so I did on the floor. More water puddled out, and it actually felt surreal, like I was dreaming.

Now, because I had been so   energetic   vivacious   seizing the day   exhausted the days before, I was ripe for a shower. The concept of 72 doctors and nurses all over my unshowered hoo-ha for the next whoever-knows-how-many hours was not appealing. I did know though that I needed to go to the hospital at some point for the required antibiotics for Group B Strep once my water broke (or at least, that is what one resident told us previously).

It was 3:20am on May 25th, 2013.

I decided I would slowly have a fast shower (lol) and then go down the two flights of stairs to wake the Hubs and likely scare the shyte out of him with the news.

Waking him was cute. I was in my shower robe, and I said really calmly (and probably very cute-ly, if I do say so myself) "Hi hon, my water broke".

He sprung up into this crazy feral on-all-fours position (after clarifying with me that I was not, in fact, joking). I think the two hours of sleep, and four weeks earliness, sent him into a wee bit of a tailspin. It was really quite adorable and an incredible shift, because he is ALWAYS the calm one and I am ALWAYS the crazy/dramatic/high-strung one.

One of us realized we were supposed to call the hospital, so we called labour & delivery. The nurse said that it wasn't "alarm bells and whistles" but to head down to the hospital to be checked out. We tried to gather the few baby things I had set out, some clothes and socks for me, bedding and stuff for him, and tried to proceed calmly. It didn't feel like we were in a hurry, but he was quite absent minded and very cute. I had an eerie calm about me. Perhaps a little relief that the horribly uncomfortable interpretive-dance-ninja in my inner loins was finally going to be sprung free into the world. Or maybe I was just too tired to think. Could have been either.

Our dogs knew something was up instantly and they were barking their fool heads off outside at 4am. We made our way to the hospital around 4:30am or so. Registered at the emergency desk, then the Hubs wheeled me up to the labour floor.

There, we were promptly ignored and put into a group exam room. The nurse at the desk acted like I was foolish for being there and let us wait until nearly 5:30am before tending to us. From there, she checked with a little litmus-like paper strip to see if my waters were in fact amniotic fluid that had broken. She genuinely appeared surprised when the strip registered a deep purple, confirming that baby had really and actually sprung a leak.



THEN she stopped being a bitch and paged the OB (Obstetrician).

Shit was about to get real.

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I Birthed, Yo.

I have about 3.4 seconds to write this post, but wanted to update y'all.

I gave birth to a beautiful, wonderful, snuggly, amazing little girl in the wee hours of May 26, which was 4 weeks early.

It was a terrifying, painful, amazing thing. I will post a shizz ton of detail in the future, but wanted to sum that up now.

She shall be called "Baby D" from here on in.

I look forward to sleep sometime in the next two decades?



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Cracking, Breaking, Broken.

For once, I am not referring to myself.

WHOA. I know.

I've been sucking fairly heartily at posting on the regular... and I'm guessing I will get no better. That being said, I've been trying to do things in real life, outside of the internet, once more.

It's a mad, mad world, I tell ya.

Running errands, buying stuff for the house, trying to unpack and organize, and trying to do extreme sports like, oh, I dunno... going up a flight of stairs or bending over to pick something off the floor - all these things can wear a girl out.

And they have.

BUT, while I've been doing that, our spiffy new house has decided that it would like to further challenge me on a day to day basis.

Over two weeks ago now (maybe three?) our furnace kinda sorta decided to stop working. Three technicians and multiple charges later, they say we need a new one and THINK they know what the issue is.

Oh JOY.

Two days after getting that wonderful ($$$) news, the "up" button on our oven display just collapsed into its own housing. Everything else works fine, we just can't increase the temperature to above the starting temp of 350F, or use the timer. You know, unless we are setting the timer for 0:00, in which case we are SOLID.

Figuring that we could replace it ourselves, or MacGuyver a ghetto button in there until the stove dies, I was badly mistaken and have spent far too long hunting down the part and trying to find tutorials on how to take apart the front of the gas stove.

No big deal, right? WRONG. That part is over $315. A new stove starts around $1800 and goes up to $3000 depending on the features.

Well, what a relief that we have no other major expenses to worry about. Oh... right... except for the crib, the baby's dresser, the glider and nursing ottoman, change pad, crib mattress, sleepers, onseies, socks, diapers, butt cream (me AND baby, thankyouverymuch), stroller, carseat....

You get the idea. Living in a new city means no wonderful hand-me downs from friends and family. And finding baby consignment stores within a 20 minute drive is impossible.

I don't even have nice pictures for you for this post, because I am too lazy to grab a camera or download from my phone.

I'm pretty damn pooped, being due next month, but I think that my VISA may need to be hospitalized for exhaustion.

How are you guys out there doing? Ever been hit with a shit-ton of expenses all within a short period of time?

Being an adult is hard. How do I CTRL+Z this biznazz?

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Fisting: Now with more strawberry!

We've all seen it at one point or another.

Don't try to deny it.

Sitting, or standing, watching in awe. That something SO LARGE could fit into such a small opening.

It's astounding. It can be revolting, but it's mostly a marvel.

I feel embarassed to admit it, but this time, after I saw it, I was actually drawn to it. I was nearly salivating because I wanted it so badly.

It was huge and freakish and odd and beautiful.

Yeah, I'm sure there was no genetic modification involved in this freak at all. (And by freak I mean the strawberry, not the blogger holding said strawberry).

What, what were you expecting?

I can only imagine the level of disappointment someone is feeling if they ventured here on a much different Google search...


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Ways Depression Can Save *YOU* Money! 1st Edition

[Quick edit: I am making light of something fairly dark here, but I am talking about the apathetic kind of depression... if you are in danger, crisis, you need help, or you need to talk to someone, please go HERE for Canadian support, or click HERE for options in the USA.]

You know, tears, sadness, hopelessness and helplessness aside, depression can provide some upsides.

It's just really hard to see it when you are in the midst of it. Positivity isn't exactly high on the list of side effects when you are down and out and chemically imbalanced.

BUT - HAVE NO FEAR! Have all the apathy you want... I mean... what do I care? I'm apathetic, too. But fear not! Here are some surefire ways you can turn that frown upside down (even though it probably will continue turning right back into that frown - but let's just grasp that moment where it resembles a half-assed smile!)

Now I'm not SAYING that free stock photography sucks, but...

Unrelated aside: I hate it when someone says a person has "done a 360" when they've totally changed their mind. That means they are back where they started and not, actually, 180 degrees away and doing the opposite. Anyway....

Ways that depression can save you money (fuck, there have to be SOME plusses, right? RIGHT? NO? Shit.):

   1. Toiletries. You will save a SHIT TON on toiletries. They will be used less often than military rations of food. Case in point:

      1a. Soap. You only use it up when you get your stanky ass in the shower. Based on personal experience, said showering can occur quite infrequently. Suck on that, Dove manufacturers! For every bar of soap I'd use up, the hubby would go through about 15. Yes, I'm gross. But if you laughed because you can relate, we should likely be gross together.

      1b. Shampoo. Same as above, but even THEN, when IN the shower, sometimes all that lathering on long hair is just SO MUCH EFFORT.

      1c. Conditioner. That shit is more rare than a whooping crane. Or whooping cough. Or something rare. Not only must you overcome the hurdle of soaping AND shampooing - you have to start all over with the conditioner. This is clearly reserved for extremely special occasions, like heading to the hairdresser (shit, I should TRY to appear normal) or you know, say, getting married.

      1d. Disposable razor blade ends. I can last on a free sample or clearance bonus pack for months. MONTHS, I say. My only real nemesis here is rust. Damn you, rust.

      1e. Expensive face wash. I use it, I love it, but again - it only works when a water source is involved.

      1f. Toothpaste. WAIT, WHAT?? You mean all that dentist's office propaganda is legit? I'm supposed to brush TWICE a day? Like, with real toothpaste and not just running the tap water to make it seem like I am concerned for my teeth and gums? Whoa.

      1g. Floss. I'm not even going to attempt to pretend here. Moving on...

   2. Long distance charges.

      Personal isolation has its pocket-book advantages! Withdrawing into oneself may be highly destructive, detrimental in the long (and short) term, and counterproductive for mood issues, but damned if I don't save myself a small fortune by not calling Grandma, Uncle Bob, or anyone I know/care for/love/associate with at 15 cents per minute!

Now, I'm not SAYING that this was on a 3-day showerless bender, and I am DEFINITELY not saying that the puppy was fully awake and aware before my BO knocked her unconscious in my arms. Nope, not saying a word on that.

   3. Entertainment Budget. 
      "What's that honey? You think it would be healthy for me to leave the house once this month? [Insert multitude of excuses as to why that would be a bad idea]. And what's that you say? It would be best if I considered showering before we left the house? Whoa no. That's just too much for one (depressed) plate. What's that you say? YOU showered AND left the house today and every day this past week? Well, that's why I love you, and clearly opposites attract!"

      You will save hundreds upon hundreds of dollars. That Marianas Trench/Maroon 5/Jay Z concert at $200 a ticket? Money in your pocket, because your shitty mood, horrible self care and unmanageable anxiety will keep you nice and firmly planted on your couch! Your partner should be THANKING you, really. That magic show? Eff that. Going to the movies? No way you want to cry in front of all those people - and no, it DOESN'T matter that it's an action movie, you will probably cry regardless.

Okay, yes I have felt this way, but clearly the stock photography place got it wrong. This woman is clearly not depressed because she took the time to braid her own hair. That's high functioning self-care, kids.

      That art festival? No, it would take too much brain power. That craft show? Too much fragrant potpourri, sparkles and sweatshirts with puff paint application. And all that sensory overload - you know, breathing air, talking to people and having to walk and be upright. Do I LOOK like a marathon endurance person to you? DO I??

Yeah, didn't think so.

Okay, that's it for the first edition. I have to pee and go to sleep. Priorities, folks.

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Things No One Told Me About Pregnancy

I feel like all the mothers out there secretly snicker to themselves when they see one of us "newbies" coming along. Some mothers aren't even secretive about it, but I can identify the smirk that falls upon their mouths when I share that I am pregnant for the first time.

I KNEW it would be uncomfortable.
I KNEW it would be hard.

But I THOUGHT it would be glowy, and maybe a teensy bit softly romantic, and fascinating.

It is not. At least, not for me.
Being pregnant is BULLSHIT, save the reward at the end. No, not the vein-popping, vagina-ripping delivery "reward at the end" part. The part when that is over and you finally get to meet the squirmy blob that has been taking residence in your midsection for 9 months, stealing all your vitamins and nutrients.

I've wanted to write this post for a while, but kept hesitating because of friends who have had sad things happen.

Then I realized that I need to voice this toxic shit before it eats me ALIVE.

Things no one told me about pregnancy (aka likely knowingly withheld from me so as to not give me reason to never reproduce):

   1. For whatever reason, you will become a drizzly, drippy pee-er, and will constantly have to go. **Bonus points for creative ways to wipe without throwing out your back.

Ready? AIM! Splaaaaaatter!

   2. Even the most seasoned-hemmorhoided-vet cannot prepare for the carnage a growing fetus will have on your rectal region. A baboon has got NOTHIN' on a third trimester pregnant woman.

Even the obstetrician baboon on the right is shocked at the size of her arse balloons.

   3. While possibly not commonplace for most women, it is possible (as with me) to have CONSTANT abdominal pain and ache. 24 hours a day. With no relief.

   4. Throw in the fun and good times of an umbilical hernia just behind the ole belly button, and you've got yourself a freakish baby bump, extreme pain, inability to exercise or meet others at pre-natal fitness events, full-on uselessness, and the inability to do anything that engages the core/abdominal muscles. I'm sure you can all see how this is going to end well after the baby is born. Better yet, just imagine all that pushing with completely flaccid, unused-for-9-month ab muscles. Expect a horrifyingly graphic post on this come June.

You may be asking yourself, "Self, what the f_ck does this graphic have to do with an umbilical hernia and pregnancy?"... At least, that's what I said when the free image site gave me this when I searched "hernia". Oh well. Too bad. It's free, so it stays.

   5. Sleep. Hahahahaha. Propping up with pillows? Nice try. Recovery position? Nope. Side sleeping? Well, I can be on my side, but I'm still missing the sleeping part.

   6. Some/many/most? obstetricians don't give a flying fuck. You get a 7 minute appointment time, and you'd best talk fast. The best gem so far from my OB when asking about safety of medications and supplements: "Well, pretty much anything is safe to take". Really? SERIOUSLY? Are you fucking for real? Because I am pretty damn sure that is not accurate. But I'm going to go drink some Drano and take a boatload of Advil and get back to you. (Note: I'm kidding. Don't touch Advil if you're pregnant, or Drano if you value being alive. Both of 'em can be dangerous).

   7. Whining. So much whining. Hungry, thirsty, not thirsty, no room to eat, need comforting, can't get comfortable, back aches, feet are swollen, tailbone feels bruised, baby is painfully kicking my vagina/bladder/uvula....

   8. That "pregnancy glow" everyone is referring to is just a fancy term for too-goddamn-hot. I sweat like a waterfall. I need to tear my shirt off at random times because I am totally overheating. The more hot I am, the less I drink, and the cycle worsens and repeats!

I'm pretty sure he's got that pregnancy glow. AMIRITE?!?!

   9. The fatigue. Oh the fatigue. And the iron loss. I think a normal level for iron is supposed to be above 50, even better if it's closer to 100. I am sitting at 12. I can't take iron pills and I can't keep the liquid iron down. At all. And I've shared this with my doc many times. Low iron can result in low birth weight for baby, possible increased blood loss/need for a transfusion during delivery, possible increase in the likelihood of post-partum depression, and an increased risk of still birth. But hey, my OB doesn't care. Her solution? Take iron pills. Thanks.

   10. The weight gain. I was perhaps slightly underweight before the Hubs knocked me up. I have since had temporary, drastic changes in my nausea and ability to eat. I capitalize on those moments, and have managed to pack on about 40 lbs. in 6 months. FORTY POUNDS, YO. And I still have 3 months to go!!! I am going to be a tank come delivery time, and who knows how long it'll take to lose... especially if I have hernia surgery in there, too!

There's more, including reading stuff that indicates passing things larger than a mango AFTER the baby is born could mean trouble (W. T. F.?????!???!)... I just don't even know how to cope with these last months. And it only goes downhill from here...

Time to syphon that pint of cotton candy ice cream into one side of my mouth while I comfort myself with pineapple I will regurgitate shortly on the other side of my mouth.

Honey? Have you seen the antacids anywhere???

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Angry Meter Maid is Angry...

Bwahahaha, someone posted this on Facebook and I had to share it.

I've used old tickets on a whim and a prayer when totally out of change before... and once I turned an old ticket upside down (I got busted for that one and got a $45 ticket). But this... THIS IS BRILLIANCE, and worth the ticket:

How much time you willing to spend, hmmmmmmm?

I want to be a troll  when  if I grow up.



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