Sugar and Spice

Mother Goose once told us that young females are comprised of “sugar, spice and everything nice” but I beg to differ. At age four, I was fairly certain that my daughter K.C. was made up of “screeches and pouts and ferocious, mad shouts” instead. She went from an infant who was colicky for her first six months to a whiney, defiant young waif who ruthlessly nagged me for hours on end.

I know what you are thinking – If she were YOUR kid you’d put a quick end to THAT behavior. Yes, I used to look at other misbehaving children in the supermarket and think the same thing. Jacob was so easy-going and well-behaved and prior to K.C.’s arrival I was certain I must be quite the successful mother. All kids go through the “terrible two’s” or even the “terrible threes” in one way or another, but with Jacob I was always able to redirect poor behavior by starting a game of “who can find the Cheerio’s” or threatening to take a favorite toy away.

I once applauded my parental prowess and patted my own back on more than one occasion for never allowing whining, temper tantrums or the like in my home or in my presence. I now know that what I thought was good parenting was simply a good combination of personalities in a child/parent relationship. K.C. swiftly and methodically showed me what a great parent I was not.

I have never allowed whining or responded to requests in that voice that hits the eardrums like fingernails on a chalk board. That’s the number one rule, right? I used to believe that if a parent did not respond to or reward whining, the child would stop. Jacob probably tried whining twice, and when he realized it did not work, he stopped and hasn’t tried it since.

I also was under the incorrect assumption that children learn to speak from their parents and will imitate parental tone and inflection. For whatever reason, the tones emitting from my middle child resembled more of a squeaky door hinge than a human voice. Where had I gone wrong, and why did she continue to use this “voice” though every time she was made to repeat her requests in a “nice” voice?

I believe this particular whine comes from the cellars of Nature vs. Nurture. In this case, Nature is the main influence. I did not whine as a child, nor did my siblings. I do not tolerate whining as an adult, yet my daughter proved to me time and again that she is not me. She did not think the same way I do nor did she respond to threats the way I might have responded at age four.

I was always quite a tomboy. I loved stuffed animals and Hot Wheels cars, but had little use for dolls or makeup. In fact I was given a Barbie doll on my fifth birthday. I did find some use for her… I took her legs off and used them as tent poles for GI Joe’s campsite. Barbie legs also make good obstacles for toy horses to navigate in imaginary horse shows.

K.C. seems to be much more of a “girlie-girl” than I ever was or will be. I do wear makeup to work and for social occasions, but never if I am just hanging about the house. K.C. has seen me put on my makeup and at age two started asking for a drop of lip gloss every now and again. By her fourth birthday she had more makeup than I do, yet she was still far more interested in MY makeup than her own.

Having received two sets of makeup for her fourth birthday, we had already had a number of minor mishaps. A large hot-pink stain appeared on the carpet in her bedroom, and her psycho-gene was already showing up in obscure lipstick messages on the bathroom mirror. As a result, I decided to put her makeup in a “time out” for a few days.

One Saturday afternoon, it occurred to me that it had been quite some while since I’d had my four-year-old hanging about my ankles. As it was not her nature to entertain herself for more than a few minutes, I set off to find what she had gotten into. As I peeked into my own bedroom, I heard some quiet noises from the master bathroom.

I knew if I made my presence known, I would be met only with a wildly guilty look and I might never know whose toothbrush she had been scrubbing the toilet with. Instead, I snuck quietly to the bathroom door and peeked through. There was my little pumpkin and our white bulldog, Brandy Ann, sitting facing each other. You must understand that Brandy Ann is about the most patient, sweet-natured creatures on this earth. Indeed, she was sitting patiently as K.C. was giving her a makeover that would have made Tammy Faye Baker look clean-scrubbed.

As I pushed the door open and exclaimed “K.C.!” in a loud voice, Brandy Ann raised her blue shadowed eyebrows and nervously licked her strawberry-glossed lips in surprise.
“I didn’t do it!” K.C. screeched as she sped past me, making for the security of the small space under the bed in her room.
Brandy Ann stood up nervously, knowing she’d been caught as an accomplice in this indescribable crime of fashion. Her small bulldog tail nub was pressed against her backside and her innocent eyes ringed in green eyeliner followed me as I turned and left the bathroom. The lines between the guilty and the innocent were a bit fuzzy in this particular case.

I’d love to tell you that I marched myself straight back to K.C.’s bedroom to exact a punishment proportionate to the crime, but that would be a lie. I was laughing too hard to do much of anything other than turn back to the bathroom and start picking white dog hairs off the collection of open makeup scattered about the floor. I needed a little time to gather my composure enough to face the small, remorseless make-up-artist under the bed.

Later that day I moved the mangled remains of my own make-up collection to a higher shelf, away from artistic little hands. I did, however, allow Brandy Ann to trot proudly about the house for the rest of the day made up like a two-dollar whore.

I finally broke down and went to a child specialist for help. To my consternation, we left the office with a prescription for Zoloft which is an anti-depressant. My dear K.C. was diagnosed with Oppositional Defiance Disorder (or ODD). This “disorder” is caused by low serotonin levels in the brain. A child will repeat bad behaviors because each time she does something naughty or gets punished, she will get a “rush.” How interesting that my daughter is getting high from misbehaving. We always thought she was a bit... odd.

She comes by her serotonin issues honestly, I suppose. My paternal grandmother was a bit nuts, my brother was completely whacked, my sister once had a habit of washing her hands about 68 thousand times a day and my dad and I were always a bit too anxious about nothing in general. So perhaps it was my fault… in a way.

We never mentioned to K.C. that she was going to be getting medication at all. We simply put it in a cup of milk with enough Strawberry Quick to send any other healthy person into a diabetic coma. Within a week of putting K.C. on Zoloft at the ripe old age of four, there were changes. BIG changes. She no longer spent 8 hours a day in time out, she still had toys left in her room and she became… happy. After the first week on her medication she came to me, looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and said, “I don’t cry anymore, mommy! I’m happy now!” Though I once may have cringed at the notion of putting a child on medication, my new, improved and happier version of K.C. 4.0 made it all worth while. Would Tom Cruise agree? Well if not, I will happily loan him my middle child and allow him to taste that unaltered vintage of whine for himself.

Cheers!

Doctors and Patience

Yesterday I had the pleasant adventure of taking my youngest daughter to the doctor. Since Danika has Down Syndrome, she has about 43 doctors, so I will further specify that I took her to the Endocrinologist. It was found when Danika was in the NICU that she had boarder-line hypothyroidism. This is a common issue among people with DS and can cause people to become over-weight... because people with Down Syndrome need a few extra challenges, right?

There are not very many Endocrinologists out there currently, and I called no less than ALL of the ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth areas to try to find one that both took our insurance AND had an opening before 2009.

After hours on the phone, I succeeded in finding a doctor at Children’s Medical Center in Dallas (not to be confused with Medical City Children’s or Medical City Dallas Children’s). They had an opening for June 20,2007. At the time I placed the call, it was January something, 2007, so I gladly took the appointment and wrote it into my 10 lb. 2007 – 2009 calendar.

The big day finally arrived yesterday. My middle child, who is a very precocious four-year-old, was going to have to come too as I can’t afford someone to watch her. (I’m afraid K.C. requires hazard pay to entice would-be babysitters to take such a risk.) I was quite proud I had everyone up, dressed, fed and ready to go out the door by 11:30 AM to get to our 12:45 appointment down-town.

Along the way I decided to stop at a fast-food place to pick up some lunch. I dutifully asked my four-year-old what she would like and was quite surprised when she stated “Nothing! I’m full!”

“But this is MacDonald’s! Are you SURE you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure, mommy.”
“OK…”

I placed my order and pulled around to the window to pay.
“I want a chocolate milkshake!” a small voice whined from the back.

Thankfully the lady at the window was able to tack on this last minute health-food item as I paid.

After sitting in stop and go traffic for an hour, we arrived at CMCD (the hospital) only 5 minutes late. Hooray. I pulled into the incorrect parking lot, stopped to stare at the map I’d been sent by the doctor’s clinic, determined that the names of the streets on the map were not actually POSTED anywhere, turned the minivan around, made a U-turn at the next light and made an illegal left turn into the correct parking lot.

Jogging with a Graco Stroller and a whiny four-year-old is not as easy as it looks. It didn’t help that the outside temperature was 94 degrees. Another four degrees and I’d have been jogging through a rock group. After narrowly missing being hit by the Valet in a Hummer, we made it safely into the lobby.

We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor with my four-year-old crying the whole way because I’d forgotten to let her push the floor button. We disembarked from our elevator and found the check-in desk whereupon my four-year-old (henceforth known by her name of K.C.) announced she had to go potty. I checked in at light speed and we made it to the public bathroom just in the nick of time.

After leaving the restroom with wet hands and some soap dribbling down the side of the stroller, we located the doctor’s suite and were handed a mountain of paperwork to fill out. The nurse was already calling us to go back, so I would just have to fill out the paperwork on the run. The cup-holder trays on Graco strollers make for a great mobile desks in a pinch.

Danika was weighed, measured and her blood pressure was taking. I’m happy to announce her blood pressure was FAR better than mine was at that moment. We were then escorted to an exam room and sat down to wait for the doctor.

The doctor opened the door just in time to witness the existential ballet production by K.C. who was sailing across the room superman style atop the doctor’s stool. Pick your battles, moms – it’s this or whining.

The doctor read over Danika’s records, asked two questions and sent us down to the Lab for blood work. I’ll admit I was somewhat let down with this 4 minute visit after all my efforts. We packed up the stroller and made our way back out to the lobby where I handed the desk nurse my sloppily filled out paperwork.

After riding the elevator in which K.C. got to press the floor button, we stepped off back on the ground floor and wandered over to the Lab. In the empty lobby I was handed a paper with the number 27 on it. 27 out of what? We waited amongst the 26 invisible patients until the technician returned from a snack break and called our number.

No veins were readily noticeable in Danika’s plump baby arm, so the nurse chose to stick her finger instead. Had the finger belonged to my four-year-old, the crying would have been heard through the hospital. As it was Danika’s finger, she looked a bit surprised and then sat quietly as her tiny finger was milked for the next 20 minutes. In the mean time, K.C. was checking out all the stickers and pencils on the counter. She decided that Danika wanted the bubbles in the green bottle, and happily liberated those and a few stickers from the large glass jar in which they were neatly contained.

Then back to the car. Opening a car door on a 94 degree day is much like sticking one’s head in the oven. I felt much like the witch from Hansel & Gretel placing each of my beautiful children into the sweltering, metallic vessel and strapping them into their child “safety” seats. How safe will my children be if they are cooked before anyone has a chance to sideswipe us?

Taking a chance, I started the ignition and set the A/C on full blast, then walked back to the stroller and began collapsing it. I could just see the news reports of the car jacking in Dallas. One child would be found minutes later by the side of the road (nobody but mom can stand her whining for much longer than that) and the quiet one missing until someone realized she was still in the van when they were dismantling it. No doubt they would be met with a wide, toothless smile and two chubby hands beckoning to be picked up and hugged.

When I finally arrived home in the evening, I wondered how it was that one four minute doctor’s appointment could take up so much of my life. I estimate the total time of calling, waiting, driving, traffic, and labs to be about 6 months, 14 days, 6 hours… oh… and four minutes!

Chapter… whatever

So, pregnancy was as smooth as sandpaper with nails sticking through it and encrusted in broken glass. By some miracle my boss was very understanding of my little life-altering surprise and allowed me to take on the lower-stress position of Bill Collector/Bounty Hunter/Call People and Bitch at Them. We shortened the title to Collections though honestly I prefer Goddess of Company Wealth.

Though the position was far different from any other I’d ever held, I actually wasn’t bad at it. The company was small but growing, and the Collections area needed a creative makeover. It was actually quite fun figuring out where all the problems were and finding creative solutions for them. I think I even surprised myself with some of the major changes I made in inter-company communications (I knew that degree would come in useful some day).

As my belly grew, so did my job responsibilities and, oh yeah, my blood pressure. High blood pressure is a bad thing when one is not pregnant. When pregnant, it’s like an evil mother-in-law taking up residence in the room right next to the master suite… on the headboard side of the wall. Though I did my best to take it easy, the numbers on my home blood pressure monitor climbed steadily. By 20 weeks my doctor wanted me to stop working. Of course I stopped working immediately. Immediately after the tenth of the next month. First he throws Prunes at me and then he acts like paychecks grow on trees. What was up with this doctor?

At 28 weeks of pregnancy I made the mistake of going in for a routine fetal non-stress test. The “bun” proved to be doing just fine, but the “oven” was getting a little too hot. The staff would not even let me go out to the parking lot to grab a pre-packed suitcase from the trunk of my car. I was given one of those lovely fanny emphasizing robes that ties in the back, and being 28 weeks pregnant I had to have help with those poorly-placed low-tech fastening devices.

Taking up temporary residence in the hospital was an experience. There’s nothing like sleeping on a plastic-covered mattress loosely covered with one thin sheet in the one ward of the hospital that is kept extra warm. Finding a comfortable position while pregnant is hard enough without attempting to stuff a plastic pillow between your knees for hip support. I was given the option of laying on my left side or getting repeatedly reprimanded for shifting to my right side when my left side became sore. By day two my old back injury was acting up, and by day four I called one of my best friends who happens to be a Chiropractor to come “visit” me. I felt so much better by the time she left that my blood pressure went down to 150 over 98 for an hour or two.

By Sunday, August 6^th my blood pressure was back up just a bit. My doctor seemed to think 168 over 112 was a bad thing. He asked me to call my husband and to be ready to go into surgery in the next hour. (And he thought my blood pressure was high before?)

I grabbed my cell phone and called my hubby’s number. No answer. I called his other phone. No answer. I called the first number again and almost started to freak. As I was about to try the number again I received a text message that simply said, “HOLD ON!” I was about to get wheeled in to have a baby, and he put me on HOLD behind an “important” phone call!

I did the only thing a woman who’s not allowed to get out of bed could do. I called some friends and told them to go kick my hubby’s ass. Well, I did mention I was about to have the baby, and they said they would drive right over to our house and get him if necessary. Luckily when they called his phone, he saw it wasn’t me and answered. Needless to say I got some good apologies after that cute stunt.

Though I’d had two needles in the spine before for my other two c-sections, the third time was not the charm. Though the area was supposedly numbed with Novocain, I could still feel it just fine. I love it when they say “you’re going to feel a little pressure…” Pressure my butt! That HURT! On top of that I could feel the needle going to the left of the centered target. By the time I was on the operating table I was numb from the torso down, but my blood pressure was higher than ever. In fact after the whole ordeal was done, Dr. Prune confided that he’d never seen blood pressure that high in someone with an epidural. He was actually worried I’d arrest during the surgery. I love hearing delightful tidbits like that.

I’d love to tell you every detail about the surgical experience that day, but I had been put on a Magnesium drip to prevent seizures. For those of you lucky enough to never have experienced high volumes of Magnesium infusing the bloodstream, it’s a unique experience that is somewhat comparable to being seasick while on a bad acid trip. I’ve never tried acid, but I’ve heard stories. I have now actually seen the walls breathe. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist on my right saying “Put your arm down. Can you hear me? Please put your arm back down.” Huh? What arm? At the time I had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but I am guessing that one of the side effects of Magnesium is arm levitation.

The only clear memory I have is seeing my beautiful 2 lb. 7 oz. daughter being wheeled out in a small, plastic cart. She was pink and breathing on her own. She was absolutely beautiful. And that’s when the anesthesiologist gave me the good stuff.

I woke up (somewhat) in the recovery room. Generally at this point new mothers are wheeled to the Post-Partum ward, but they were too afraid to move me very far. In fact I was put in the room directly across the hall from the recovery room. I remember very little about the next two days. I know I was longing to see my tiny daughter, but neither she nor I could be moved. When my blood pressure was finally a little lower and the walls had stopped breathing, I was wheeled in a stretcher to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). Though Danika was tiny, she was doing better than we had dared to hope. I was even allowed to hold her for a minute before being taken to my new room in the Post-Partum ward.

Just as my blood pressure was coming under control, a doctor from the NICU came to my room and excitedly announced to me that she thought my daughter had Down Syndrome. Thanks lady! That was just the medication I needed to insure a swift and stress-free recovery from the wild ride from which I’d just disembarked.

Prune

At the time I found out I was pregnant for the third time, I didn't consider myself "old." According to the date on my birth certificate, I wasn’t as "young" as I once was, but at 2 weeks away from my 37th birthday, I didn't feel a day older than 21… and a half. I certainly didn't put a great deal of thought into my age, especially because I preferred to behave like you're average twenty-something.

When I went to my doctor for my first pre-natal visit, I was given a sizable goody-bag of magazines, pamphlets and coupons. Though I was eager to look through my bag, I was short on extra time until a month or so later. I got it into my head after a long Saturday of doing laundry that reading a magazine would be fun and relaxing, so I went spelunking in my bag of wonders and noticed a high-quality, thick magazine under a pile of other "stuff." I eagerly pulled it from the bag and looked at the cover to see if this was "Parents Magazine" or some lovely catalog of baby items. It was rather a shock to read "Plum; The Complete Pregnancy Guide for Women 35+."

Honestly, my first fleeting thought was "This can't be for me!" Yet as I mentioned, the thought was fleeting when the reality of my age set in. Holy Cow! I'm over 35! Excuse me? Am I such an anomaly that an entire magazine is dedicated to the amazement that is my pregnancy? Apparently so!

I threw down the magazine in disgust... and later picked it back up and put it in my bag to take to work. Hmmm, it is true. I am pregnant and I am over 35. I suppose somehow I just hadn't thought of those two particular elements of my life, together.

As I started mulling over this newly discovered idea, a number of thoughts came to my mind. I started to wonder about the goody-bags kept at my doctor's office. I envisioned one nurse telling another in the back room "Oh, be sure to give the 4:15 one of the bags for 'older' mothers." I wondered if they had two separate piles of goody bags, or if they just alter a bag every now and then for an "old" gal like myself. Do they need a big pile of Plums rotting in the back room, or do they just go through a few each month.

And "Plum?" We might as well call it "Prune" for those of us bearing children in our crow's-feet years! Or how about "Geriatric Gestation" or "Diapers and Depends?" Perhaps "What Took You So Long" or “Afterthought" would be great name candidates too. How about "When Your Baby's in College, You'll Be... Dead?" I can see articles in such a magazine entitled "A Wal-Mart Greeter Can Pay College Tuition!" and "How to Deal With Women Half Your Age At PTA Meetings."

It's true. In Texas especially, many women become mothers at 19 or 20. I'll be 42 when my youngest goes to Kindergarten. Will I be constantly mistaken for my child's grandmother? Will teachers young enough to BE my child annoy me?

Honestly, I am still clueless to this day. It had barely sunk in that I was pregnant at all, let alone that my "advanced age" somehow put me at risk. How could I be 37 already, anyway? Wasn't I celebrating my 18th birthday just a few years ago? I look at women in their late 30's and early 40's and I don't think of myself as being like them. In fact I see a lot of women younger than myself that just seem somehow older than me. Perhaps it was the years I spent performing in "Peter Pan" with a local college theater group that somehow gave me a skewed sense of age.

Whatever the case may be, I'm still not ready to age gracefully. Heck - I plan to go into it kicking and screaming the whole way! And when my children finally do graduate and move out of the house, I'm going to get that sports car I've always wanted, a horse and a new bikini. I'm going to travel as much as my job's salary will allow, and I'm going to spend every cent of my children’s inheritance. When I’m 110, perhaps I’ll settle down and when my husband dies, I’ll find a nice young man and be his sugar-momma!

So was I special because I was pregnant and over 35? Next time I go to the doctor's office, I'm going to tell him where he can stick his "Plum!"

Disaster Flambé

In the summer of 2005 I decided it was time to get out of the home child care scene. My own children were enough of a challenge, and my house was a disaster. Though I had four dogs at the time, the odor and stains on my carpet had not come from any of my four-legged charges. Perhaps that was a catalyst in my decision to trade in child care for doggie daycare.

I started about the same way I did with the child care, but I also took the step to rent a building in which to have my business. Now living in a Texas town North of Dallas, I checked ordinances and codes. Though the folks at Town Hall told me the existing cement floors in the building I had rented would suffice, the OTHER people at Town Hall later told me the floors would have to be sealed with epoxy. Of course by this time I had already made a bit of an investment in renovating the building.

There is a lot of stress associated with starting one’s own business. There is also stress in having a two-year-old hanging from one's ankle every minute of the day when starting said business. I didn’t realize it at the time, but we humans have a built-in gauge that measures stress. It’s called “Blood Pressure.” Though the last few times I had been to the doctor my blood pressure was a tad high, I never thought anything of it as mine had always been ridiculously low.

Around this time my sister called me and asked me to come to Louisiana. In her twenty-seventh week of pregnancy, she had been put in the hospital when proteins were found in her urine (yum!). I packed up the last of all of our baby toys, car seats, bassinets, bottles and so-on and prepared to drive to Louisiana. Mind you, this was about a week after Hurricane Katrina blew through, and though my sister lived in Lafayette, there was still a bit of turmoil across the state. My husband could not come with me, so in his stead I brought my beloved Olde Victorian Bulldogge, Brandy Ann and my Chihuahua, Devon. Brandy’s looks alone would be enough to deter any person with malice on the mind.

While in LA I took it upon myself to create the proper environment for my sister’s new addition. I had my brother-in-law move all the computer equipment and furniture out of the chosen future room of the first-born, and painted my butt off for the next two days. This is why I no longer have a butt... I wish! I should mention that I am actually NOT a beginner painter. I have enjoyed creating art on any piece of blank canvas I find. My own home does not have a white wall in any room… I take that back. My son’s room has an Oriental theme. Rice-paper white walls on three walls and a brilliant oriental red on the fourth wall. The trim around the doors, floor and windows is black, and I painted a dragon in gold upon the red wall. What? Don't all mothers paint "theme" rooms for their children?

While off on this tangent, I might as well run wild and tell you that I have always wanted Venetian Plaster and stone for walls. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination could I afford such luxuries, so I created my own plaster and stone (and brick and adobe…) with paint. I love it when visitors look about the disaster that is my home and look visibly surprised to see an arched brick window above the kitchen cabinets, or marble walls in the bathroom.

The baby’s room in my sister’s house was not finished a moment too soon. Baby Joshua was born on Labor Day (of all possible days) in 2005. He weighed in at 1 lb. 8 oz. Thank goodness the little guy had a huge amount of “fight” in him to carry him through the next few months. Knowing that my sister lived just down the street from some big NFL football player, I was disappointed I didn't have one of those stork signs on which I could paint "Louisiana welcomes it's newest future NFL lineman, Joshua. Weight: 1 1/2 lbs. Height: 12 inches!" for the front yard.

Just after Joshua’s birth, my sister’s doctor asked our family members if anyone else had high blood pressure. The answer was a resounding “No.” Shortly after the final echo of the word, I started to wonder just a little bit about my last few visits to my own doctor. Was it possible little Miss saltaholic-I’ve-always-had-low-blood-pressure could be developing a problem? Nah!

Upon my return to Texas, I made myself an appointment with my doctor to follow-up on my new migraine medication. The visit created a whole new kind of headache for me. My blood pressure was quite a bit higher than my aspirations of building a successful doggie daycare business. I started taking medications that seemed to do no more than an order of salty french-fries would. The dosage was increased almost weekly, and I was taken off all other substances that might elevate my blood pressure for any reason. I finally allowed the doctor to talk me into walking away from my floundering doggie daycare business, and into going off the birth control pill I had been on since the birth of my last child. I found a job working for a small company in a nearby town and got pregnant on my first day.

Nothing like sleeping your way to the top… and no, it’s not like it sounds. I suppose the stars aligned just perfectly on the 18^th of January, 2006. Our little celebration for my first day in a new job (and that cute little French Maid outfit my hubby got me) resulted in pregnancy number three. How was I going to explain this to my new boss after only three weeks on the job? I know – you’re probably thinking “why even tell your boss so early?” Well, I had taken a sales position that required 50 plus hours of attention a week, and my blood pressure just found a new reason to become even higher. Somehow I had inadvertently found myself in possession of all the necessary ingredients for the recipe for “Disaster Flambé.”

The Sleep-Deprived Ranting of a Pregnant Lady

The following night was to be the height of the full moon, and for those of you who are unaware, more babies are born on a full moon than any other time. No wonder they tend to howl when they come out. Anyway, this particular night I was about thirty-five weeks along and my very own little internal bundle of joy decided to make herself more comfortable. Until this time she had been mostly transverse breech (o><) or sideways inside of me. I swear to the heavens she was sticking straight out that night. Her head was apparently against my spine and her feet were trying to come out of my belly-button. My hubby said my belly looked like it had (pardon the expression) a hard-on. The word "uncomfortable" can't even begin to describe the sensation. Of course paired with my BHO (belly hard-on) I was having contractions every five minutes. It didn't matter what I did or how I sat or if I lay on my side. I even tried laying on my back - at very least my little one would have the sensation of being head-down for once.

Finally I gave up and went to bed at 8:00 PM. The contractions subsided just a bit. Just enough to let me fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep...

By 12:00 AM it was I who was ready to trot outside and howl at the almost completely full moon. I'm sure my neighbors would have LOVED awakening to some huge, naked pregnant lady standing on her back deck screaming out over the moon-lit lake, "JUST LET MY DAMN WATER BREAK, ALREADY!" Yup. They'd like that.

Every hour or so I got up, peed about a teaspoon's worth, tried to stretch my menstrual-cramp-achy lower back, popped my neck, attempted to get at least one of my hips back in alignment, crept back to bed (as well as a pregnant-huge lady with whacked-out hips can creep) and laid there praying for my water to break. Of course all this activity was quite exciting to my little tyke who thought it would be fun to show me how talented she will someday be in every possible form of Martial Arts.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And left with nothing to do but ponder, I recalled two incidents that happened just the day before at work. Early in the day a lady came in with her 3 or 4-year-old child. She was so excited I was pregnant and started asking me all sorts of questions. I finally confided that my first pregnancy had been soooo easy, and this one had been pretty difficult, but I was hanging in there. She nodded quite knowingly and stated that her second pregnancy was "pure hell" and "so incredibly hard, I'd never believe it!" Of course this begged my inquiry, which I offered on cue. "I was SOOOO tired the last two weeks - it was HORRIBLE!" She shared with me.

"Um, let me finish your paperwork so I don't hold you up." I replied.

Any other time I think I would have found a polite way of hinting to her that a problem like that would seem like a gnat on this elephant's toenail (after 18 weeks of bad 24x7 morning-sickness, sciatica and the diagnosis of an Irritable Uterus at 22 weeks… not only was it deformed, but it was pissed off too!) but I was too darn tired to even bother with her ignorance. I sure hope she never tells someone who REALLY had problems, like bed-rest, medications, pre-eclampsia, diabetes and a preemie baby to show for it, how hard her pregnancy was! Perhaps someone will slap her someday. One can only hope.

At the end of the day a well-meaning customer, who was aware to a limited extent of my difficulties, came into the business. "Don't worry. I just know you'll make it all the way to the end!"

"That is not what I want to hear! I do not want to go three more weeks like this. I don't think I can handle this for another HOUR! If you had scarab beetles with burning acid saliva eating you slowly and painfully from the inside out, would you want me to tell you "Don't worry - I think you'll live for another three weeks or so?" I don't think so!”
My outburst was met with a hardy guffaw by my co-worker and the bemusement of my poor customer.

After that I heard there was to be a full lunar eclipse of the full moon on the following night (May 15th, 2003). The moon, earth and sun would be in perfect alignment. I could just picture my husband and myself showing up at Labor and Delivery at 11:40 PM (the height of the eclipse in North America) along with dozens of other pregnant couples. I believe I would have raised the most eyebrows when they asked me "When did your contractions start?" and I replied "Thirteen weeks ago."

Arf, Arf Aaaaawwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
(And they'll wonder why my baby was born with so much hair!)

Alien Encounter

Everyone always told me how different their boys and girls were while they were carrying them. By my twenty-third week of pregnancy I would have told you this one started out differently too. I felt Jake for the first time at 14 weeks, and felt him regularly after that. This one I felt at 12 weeks (because she was sitting right on my overly-sensitive bladder) but stopped feeling her when my uterus rose up a bit. I started feeling her again around 16 weeks, but only now and then.

By twenty-three weeks she made herself known ALL THE TIME. She was not at all like Jake. Jake was gentle with mommy. He'd bounce and bump and rub and pat and wiggle. This one punched and stabbed and kicked and walloped! My belly button became a point of interest, and a great punching bag. My hubby often joked that she was going to hit it just right someday and make my innie an outie. My bladder made a great trampoline, especially when it was full and we were in a car. How nice I was to supply her with toys in there! On top of everything else, I had developed an “irritable uterus” which meant I enjoyed hard contractions a minimum of four times an hour. At first I would go check in with my doctor (that's what the books tell you to do if this happens) but later I was instructed not to bother the doctor with my contractions "unless part of the baby was hanging out." Needless to day, there were days I went to the ladies room just to check myself for extra feet.

The dog and cat still fought over who got to sit on mommy's lap, but I think both were contemplating the possibility of demonic possession. One night the cat was asleep on my lap when the baby woke up and decided it was play time. This warm lump on top of her was neat! If she punched it just right...
Yes, I think I had the best view from the outside. Without warning, the baby clobbered the cat's tender underbelly. Wellington's round, green eyes opened wide with shock and he jumped up to find the mouse that had run beneath him. He inspected and sniffed the entire area of my belly for almost a minute before deciding he'd been mistaken, and settling back down to complete his nap.
Whump!
Wellington shot from my lap as if he's been... well... kicked. He sped to a hideout under the coffee table, eying me with distrust as my hubby and I sat there laughing until tears came to our eyes.

The dog had encountered the bumping tummy also. The first time or two she sat upright and sniffed my belly thoroughly. After deciding there was no immediate danger, and no goblins hatching out of my belly button, she decided she didn't mind getting whacked every now and then, provided I continue to allow her to sit on me. She had also noticed that lap real estate had become progressively more limited. The good news for her (unlike the 15 lb cat) was that there was almost always room for a 6 lb Chihuahua, even one wearing a pink sweater and sparkly purple collar.

Since the dog had decided the tummy is not dangerous, the cat eventually gained enough trust to vie for the limited lap space, often dislodging the canine in his efforts to become comfortable. Of course it was mommy's job to make sure there was room for everyone on the quickly shrinking lap.

As the baby grew stronger, my clothes grew progressively more interesting. Shirts with stripes turned into shirts with moving waves. Loose items fluttered when under attack from the entity within, and solids gathered quickly moving shadows before they fell back in place. My belly button was permanently bruised, and my bladder had become a popular dance floor for tiny feet.

I'll never forget the day I was sitting at work entering information into an order on the computer. I felt the giant kick just as the keyboard tray and keyboard that had been resting just against my growing belly, disappeared from under my hands and rolled back under the desk.

Of course this behavior was not something that just happened in the daylight hours. Talk about things that go thump in the night! There must be some kind of rule that playtime starts when mommy is just… drifting… off. Whack! If the baby could communicate, I’m sure she’d be saying, “Are you asleep yet? Gotta pee?” And all ideas of sleep that I had just moments before are put on hold until after the first of many potty breaks for the night.

Can you tell what a child's personality will be like before they're born? I knew if this was any indication of things to come, my daughter would have no trouble trouncing her brother by the time she was two. Mommy's job will be protecting the tiny ten-year-old from the terrible-two-tantrums. My husband suggested we get her involved with martial arts very early, so she can learn patience and control to go with that cat-launching kick. Perhaps she'll have an affinity for soccer, or become the first female NFL kicker. Only time will tell.

Conversation With A Six-Year-Old

When Jake was four, he started with the basics of "where do babies come from?" We were in the car on the long drive home from school, and it took everything in my power not to suck my gum into my windpipe. My dear mother (thank you mom, for everything) taught by example that honesty and a straight forward approach is the best policy, so I proceeded with care.

I started in terms that I felt he could best handle by explaining that when a mommy dinosaur and a daddy dinosaur want to have a baby, they get very close together and the daddy dinosaur puts his sperm in the mommy dinosaur and so on. That was good enough for a four-year-old.

One evening while driving home, Jake (who was turning seven in two weeks) suddenly and out of nowhere piped up from the back seat, "So how does the man get the sperm get into a woman?"
I took a deep breath while putting some effort into keeping the car on the road, thought for a moment and replied, "Well, it comes out of his penis." Don't you love saying penis while driving? No? Well then why do these "cherished moments" so often happen whilst navigating rush-hour traffic?
"His penis? Ewwww!" (Pause) "But how does it get inside the woman?"
"It goes in through her vagina." Yup - another of my favorite words! I explained this to him cringing only slightly this time and swerving to miss a cement mixer entering the busy highway two inches in front of me.
"Eeeeewwwwwww!" (Pause) "But it couldn't fit in there!" Jake exclaimed. I peeked and caught him making the most horrendous expression in the rear-view mirror. I swallowed my giggle, sped up to pass the cement mixer which was moving about 20 mph slower than the rest of the traffic and answered him, “Well, GOD made animals and people so that it does fit because he wants us to be able to have babies."
"Eeeeewwwww! That's gross!" (Pause) "Do they take their clothes off?" He asked in horror.
"Usually." I stated, again trying not to giggle, and blushing a rosy shade of purple, I'm sure.
"Eww! That’s nasty!" (Pause) "You'd think GOD could have thought of something better than THAT!"