It's the FINAL COUNTDOOOOOWN!!!

Today's blog brought to you from my bathtub, courtesy of the Blogger app for iPhone. Blogger and iPhone: helping you talk to the universe from the creepiest locations imaginable since 1973*. 

Now I'm not writing from the watery comfort of my tub for the expressed purpose of being creepy (though it is a fringe benefit) but because such a high percentage of my free time these days is spent right here. As of today, I am 39 weeks pregnant, and my everything hurts, all of the time. I have become one of those people who spends most conversations regaling those around me with tales of my long long list of physical maladies, and no one wants to be my friend anymore. So for now, I will continue to take advantage of my own little gravity free capsul and enjoy every pain free, warm, floaty moment I can. 

Rubber Ducky is masquerading as a Rubber Bunny and he says hello. 

39 weeks pregnant. Today. Officially in the "any day now" category. Any day now, I have to push a giant, breakdancing watermellon out of my mostest delicate bits. Again. And it's pretty freakin terrifying. 

This weekend, following a 3 hour long session of every 2-3 minute "just kiddin" contractions, it seems the baby has taken the advice of Captain Piccard and Engaged. This is the technical Star-Trekkian term for when the baby isn't quite ready to leave the party, but has grabbed his coat and headed for the door. In more experiential terms, it's the time when you are officially walking around with a bowling ball between your legs. It's super neat. 

I've been thinking about nesting a lot lately, and I've decided that it's a whole big bunch of bull-puckey. I have to assume it was invented by men who are trying to convince their wives, after all these months of waddling and complaining and napping that they "will feel a sudden burst of energy that will really make them WANT to scrub toilets and mop floors.We swear!" Nice try, devious men, but I'm on my 3rd go-round here, and I'm sure as heck not buying it. Yes, I'm trying to clean house and freeze a few dinners, because having a baby inevitably means having company, and I don't want to feel ashamed, but the only nesting I've ever actually WANTED to do involves burrowing into a giant pile of blankets and pillows and napping for a month. 

Although I will say, this morning I had a lot of fun raiding the grocery store and filling our cupboards with sugar-things and junk food and dinners that require no more preparation than a few taps on the microwave.  Because I'm a good mom. And I take care of those I love. 

You're welcome, America. 

So this is the end of my post. I finished the whole thing without dropping my phone in the tub, EVEN ONCE, so I'm calling it a win. Sorry if the phone autocorrected me into saying anything more inappropriate than I intended, like at the beginning where it tried to change the word creepiest to creamiest. And if you found this whole post offensive, I assure you, what I was really trying to say was stuff like... rainbows and kitties and fuzzy bitty bunny bumpers.  Dang Autocorrect. 

*ish. And you can't sue us for lying if we say 1973ish. Because grand seem of things, it's true, and YOU look like the dumb one. So ha. 

End of September check in, and some stuff that's been happening and stuff.

This morning I was having a "conversation" with my 17 month old son.  He said Daddy, then he said Baby.  Well, more like Bay.... beeeeee.  But I took it.  So I asked him:
"Kaden, where's the baby?"
"Bay.... beeeee."
"Where's the baby?"
"Bay.... beeeeeeeee."
So I point at my bulging midsection and let him know-
"The baby is right here.  There's a baby in Mommy's tummy!"
He then walks up to me and points his tiny finger directly at my derrière.
"Bay... beeee?"
".... Touche, tiny human.  Touche."

Husband has been outrageously nice about my physical appearance.  Most of the rest of humanity has too, continuously asserting that my over 30 pounds gained is most definitely confined solely to my midsection.  (As if I'm going to have an actual 30 pound baby.  I don't want to have a 30 pound baby.  I don't want to MEET a 30 pound baby.)  So everyone's been very kind.  But children, well, they're honest.

It's been a busy last ... year, honestly, but it's starting to wind down.  I  have a superb staff working under me who is taking over more and more of the job so that I can spend more time in bed as God intended.  I have 4 weeks left before I am allowed by law to ignore my job and all of its responsibilities.  We've moved our office into our bedroom and our daughter into the office.

Yes.  I'm proud of this work, this painting, and this room as a whole.  
It was a lot of work and I think it looks good and I am proud.  So, take that.

I've also started to crochet a blanket for myself (something I've never done before).  It's going supremely slowly, but now I HAVE to get it done before baby boy dos comes along, as I also need to do one for him because that's a rule I've created for myself, and if you can't follow your own rules, then what good are you, anyway?

I tried to take a picture of the blanket to show you how it's coming along.  It's brown and tan an aquamarine, and it's not the softest in the world but it's thick and chunky and will be nice this winter, I think.  If it's finished.  And it will be.  Anyway, I tried to take pictures, but the kids noticed, so the photo shoot... changed.  To something more like this:

This series is called, I had to go help out the boy with some stuff, and someone SUPER enjoys taking pictures of herself.

That was 7 out of the roughly 50 pictures I found when I came back to my computer 5 minutes later.

I finally got a pic of blanket, by throwing it over my daughter's head.  She thought it was a fair compromise.

So as it happens, if we count today, I only have 9 more days left of my 20's.  9 more days left of a whole decade.  In 10 years I've graduated twice, gotten married, bought a car, two computers, and then a house, and I've had almost 3 kids.  It's been a pretty wicked awesome decade, and maybe that's why I'm so loathe to leave it.  And although I have a feeling the next decade won't have as many listable life events in it, I've got some pretty strong hopes that the 30's totally kicks the 20's ass.  Take that, my youth.  

Man, I feel like a....

Pregnancy is super painful, y'all.  Pregnancy is painful, and seems to be increasingly painful each time you do it.  I mean, you expect things like back pain, but you don't ever expect the whole "feels like someone cracked you in the pelvic bone with a baseball bat" thing, or those times when the baby sits on a nerve or something and causes one of your legs to cramp up and lose structural integrity and very nearly causes you to fall to the floor in front of people and make them think you might be dying.  I'm grimacing in public and freaking people out.  I shed 3, maybe 4 actual tears at a client's house, because life is painful and I am exhausted and those things decided to leak out of my face holes.

So, it's the 3rd trimester.  Roughly 12 more weeks till we meet our son.  His name is Harper Reid, and I hope he fits in well, because the first two have been getting on AMAZINGLY well.  Today for example, they took all of their toys out of their drawers and dumped them on the floor, then they had a pretend tea party.  Which was fun because no one was screaming.  I've learned that I'm okay with a messy house so long as nothing smells bad and no one is screaming.  Anyway, it's important to know your limits.

2 Trimesters down, 3 months of growth and discomfort left to go!

So that's a picture of me from last week, right on the cusp of the trimester change.  Aside: right now, it should be noted that my son is doing somersaults inside of me and I feel what I must imagine a pumpkin must feel while someone is scraping out its insides.  Bside:  I'm not sure if I'm looking much bigger, but I frequently waddle when I walk because it hurts to move, and I find it really helps to swing my arms in an excessive manner to keep up forward momentum.

My husband just posed a hypothetical situation to me that began with the phrase, "So, if you were a woman..."

Over 7 years married, who says the magic has to go?

::Sigh::

Street Fighter. That happened once.

These days when I try to find my own blog, the internet gets all sorts of attitude.  What?? You want to go WHERE?  No.  No, I'm pretty sure that place doesn't exist.

Touche, internet.

I haven't found much of any spare time this summer to do things I enjoy like needle work and reading fine literature and talking at the internet.  But tonight, husband has decided that we should watch Street Fighter staring Jean-Claude-Van-DAMN he doesn't look very good with red hair.  That's right.  I TOTES just Fresh Princed your toucases.  Anyway I really don't know what's going on.  I'm not even sure exactly where this is supposed to be taking place, except that it's highly ethnic-ish, with lots of southeast Asians, and belly dancing, and Samoans, and mohawks, and turbans, and there's lots of bones in the decor.  I'm guessing somewhere in South Central LA.  Apparently "this place makes Detroit look like Disneyland", and some guy named Bison is printing money with his own face on it.  So I'm guessing his evil plot has something to do with a counterfeit Monopoly franchise.

Nerdy accountant guy: "Colonel, have you lost your mind?"

Van Dam: "No..... you have lost your balls."

BOOM!!!!!  Take that Nerdy Accountant Guy!!

Husband just pointed out that there has yet to be any street fighting in this Street Fighter flick.  Maybe they're saving that for the sequel?

Anyway, this movie is quite obviously shooting for that magical combination of hilarity and total kick-assedness, but seems to have tripped and fallen into a big steaming pile of stupidity.  And then there's a painting of a clown.  And Van Dam is watching home videos and listening to some poppy 80's tunes while driving his stealth ship.  Woooooaaaah, the stealth ship just went all electric and sparkly like the Delorean right when it's about to hit 88 mph.  That seems like a pretty dangerous feature for a water vessel, and it doesn't seemed to have sped the ship up.  It still took a good 15 minutes of deeply contemplative screen time just to get them to coast out of the bay.

So I came on the internet as a diversion from this terrible movie, but now I can't seem to stop watching.

Evil Monopoly Dictator Guy: "Identify yourself!"

Van Dam: "This is the collection agency, Bison.  And your ASS is 6 months overdue."

Boom!! HE DOES IT AGAIN!!

Holy Chicken Sticks, the bad guys control their weapons by using the ACTUAL STREET FIGHTER ARCADE GAME CONTROL PAD.  With the little ball-topped joy stick, and the primary colored buttons.  Just so you know, when you push those buttons, it seems you are, in fact, dropping giant mega-bombs into rivers in unnamed third world countries.

3 guards just spun around synchronously, screamed CALIENTE! and aimed their weapons at an elephant who happened to be walking by.  Yeah, that's right, screw you, you hot hot lumbering beast.

Oh my gosh, Carrot Top is trying to strangle Van Dam!!  But it's cool because Van Dam reminded him that they used to be friends, so Carrot Top cried and stuff.  And then Van Dam decided to shoot him.  But a scientist told him he wasn't allowed to.

I rate this movie: Unpleasant.

I rate Mr. Van Dam: How Did You Ever Have a Job.

I rate the villain's bulbous eye balls: Impressive.  And a little bit terrifying.

Woah, all of a sudden people are speaking Japanese and sumo wrestlers are making Godzilla noises.

Tip for if you ever find yourself in hand-to-hand combat with Van Dam:  He will roundhouse kick you to the face.  Watch for that.  It's pretty much his only move.  He raises his fists a bunch, but that's just a red herring.  It's all about the roundhouse kick to the face.

The bad guy just came back to life because his suit administered CPR and electroshock therapy and then gave him a shot of adrenaline.  And now he has magical powers.  No sorry, they explained it, it's something something electromagnetism.  My mistake.

In other news, I am now 26 weeks(ish) pregnant, and I have already gained 28 pounds from my lowest weight, and most of the time I feel too tired to breathe and I cannot stop urinating.  Ever.

Don't worry, Van Dam just killed the bad guy with a roundhouse kick to the face that made the whole room explode.  Take that, Bad Guy.

On the bright side, my wedding ring still fits most days, and my abdomen looks like a Jello-mold with a tiny alien trapped inside.  Which is a plus because sometimes it's entertaining to watch.  It still looks to me like there might be two alien's trapped inside, but that's not what the doctors seems to think, and I suppose they would know.

These Street Fighters should be called Street Run-Awayers.

Well this post is almost as long and terrible as the movie that inspired it, so I think it's about time for me to sign off.  Have a nice night, folks.  And by nice, I mean, don't go waste your night on Street Fighter.  It will hurt all of your face holes.

Just one more lapse in brain function.

Have you ever felt like maybe your brain was actively trying to sabotage you?  I just don't know who I can trust anymore.

I went to sleep last night (like ya do), and all seemed normal and well and good.  Sometime later, an unknown time later, I found myself in the position of having to complete various small "pick up-y" types of chores.  The last of which being "pick up this glass, and put it on that table over there".  Done. Chore complete.  Except... oh no... why am I wet?  And why is my husband screaming at me?

"What, WHAT is going ON here?!?  WHY?!?!?!?"

"I just... I had to put the cup on the table, but I guess the table was the bed... and it spilled and... oh gosh. Oh gosh. I'm so sorry.  I'll get a towel."

If it took you less than 5 minutes to clue into what was happening, congratulations, your brain is MUCH more compliant than my own.  It seems that last night (I'm blaming this one on Lil' Accidente) my brain was too low on serotonin or melatonin or one of those other important brain chemicals that I was once upon a time required to know the names of (Epinephrine? Nora Epinephrine?).  And apparently the chemical I was missing is the exact one that keeps your body from living out your full dream potential by paralyzing your muscles during REM sleep.  So when I reached for a glass of water, carried it around and then placed it on a table, my un-paralyzed body found the glass of water on my bed side table and relocated it to the center of my bed, directly between myself and my husband.

It was wet.  It was terrifying.

The worst part was that, even upon waking, I couldn't quite grasp that I'd been asleep.  I couldn't answer my shitting-a-brick husband by telling him that I'd simply had a dream that had somehow gone terribly awry.  Instead it was like my brain set me up, then sat back and said, "You did this.  You obviously meant to do this, so now you deal with the consequences."  I was left scrambling to comprehend myself and my outrageous motivations, and apologizing for what seemed to be a pretty serious lapse in judgement.

Now I have to add this.  I know it sounds like this is all an elaborate way to cover up the fact that I probably actually peed the bed.  If a kid came to you with this story you'd call him a liar and immediately change his sheets.  But I promise you, that is not the case.  At least this time.  And as PROOF, I will remind you that I already told you about once when I sort of started to pee in my sleep, so I'm obviously not above telling the truth here. HA.

I feel like I should probably be more apprehensive about going back to sleep tonight.  I mean, if I can do this, then what's next?  Tea service for five?  But alas, I am sleepy, so bed will just the same.  You can bring the crumpets.

I'm not complaining if I SAY I'm not complaining.

I am absolutely not complaining.  Please hear me say that.  I have been blessed to overflowing.  Blessed in ways that make me fall the floor in humility.  I've been given far more than I deserve, far more than I ever could have expected. I have absolutely, ABSOLUTELY nothing to complain about.

But, ya know.  Somehow I still manage to find something.  Just to keep things interesting.

Truth be told, lately I've been feeling a little down.  A little (okay, a lot), frumpy.  Lumpy.  In general, mushy and gross and mega unattractive.  And although I've gotten pretty good about laughing at myself and shrugging it off (can't take these things too seriously, ya know), over time, even stupid little things can begin to wear on you.

The other day I went shopping, decided to buy the first pregnancy dress  I've purchased in 4 years.  Quite possibly the first ANY dress I've purchased in 4 years, come to think about it.  I got it in my head that it was time for a change.  I wanted something flirty, something feminine.  Something, dare I say, sexy.

Yes, I agree.  I was asking an awful lot out of a maternity dress.

And it didn't go to well.  The first stop to the local maternity store taught me that my boobs are smaller than the dress makers expect.  By a lot.  Even in their smallest sizes.  Apparently, other ladies grow great big gigantor chesticles when they grow babies.  I, it would seem, do not.  Then along with the terror of the saggy top, I was forced, again and again and again, to see my belly button.  Because of the crappy cheap fabric, I assure you.  And my hips look weird.  Gross weird.  Stupid weird hips.

Can I just stop here and ask: why the HECK is it possible to feel like you've you got a giant wonky body when wearing maternity clothes???  Maternity clothes are MADE for giant wonky bodies.  This is supposed to be the ONE FREAKING TIME where they know exactly what your body is dealing with, and work to present it in the best way possible.  Or just stick you in thin, clingy, terrifyingly revealing crap fabric.  Sure.  Either way.

Anyway, second store.  Found a dress.  Very little selection, buy they had a knee length, almost fitted on top (MIRACLE!), flowy black dress.  Just what I'd been looking for.  So I excitedly threw in a cheap-yet-sparkly pair of earrings and ran home to model my new duds for the husband.   And I did.  And he responded: "It's good!  It's... a maternity dress."  Which is when I turned to walk away, almost definitely (yes, definitely) flipping him off in the process.  Because I didn't want to look like I was pregnant.  I didn't want to wear a maternity dress.  I wanted to be hot stuff.  Apparently, the dress hadn't got the memo on these deepest wants and desires.

The dress that doesn't know my life, or understand my undying need for sex-appeal.

Jump forward.  Today, I bought a new maternity bathing suit.  The first one I've ever owned.  Do you know exactly how much fabric it takes to cover my body right now?  Because it's a lot.

A lot.

Anyway, all of the shopping from this weekend, and the coinciding self-loathing sentiments got me thinking:  Why?  I've been pregnant before.  Why do I feel so wretched about it THIS time?

I think I may have figured it out.  The answer, as it turns out, was in the math.  After some quick calculating, I discovered that I have been pregnant and/or nursing now for 23 months straight.  And I will most likely be pregnant or nursing for another 17 consecutive months.  Now another step further.  In the past 4 1/2 years, I have been pregnant and/or nursing a baby for 44 total months.  For all my math hating friends out there, that translates to 3 years and 8 months.  In 4 1/2 years, I've only been free of these periods for about 10 months.  I'm starting to think it's the numbers that are getting to me.

Raising kids is freaking awesome.  Don't get me wrong.  I LOVE the babies.  but that doesn't mean it's not exhausting.  And painful.  And stressful.  For almost 4 years now, a tiny person has ruled my body, dictating what I could ingest, how I looked, and frequently, how I physically felt.  And aside from how amazing the whole experience can be, it can also leave you feeling more like a vehicle, a tool, a device for feeding and breeding, and not at all like a woman.  Sometimes not even like a human.  Which really leaves you wondering when they took that mom on TLC with the 37 children and switched her out for a baby-having cyborg.  I'm guessing some time around kid 6.

Alright.  I've written more than enough tonight, and this is probably the absolute last thing in the world that deserves to be complained about.  Tomorrow I'll write in again, telling you how terrible it is to be outrageously, ridiculously wealthy, and you can all shed a tear on my behalf.

Happy June, dear friends, hope it's been just the Juniest!

Why hello there, the internet. You're looking well.

It has been a long hard couple of months, filled with lots and lots of work, 2 1/2 months worth of day-long nausea, lots of exhaustion, and exciting "extras"like my son's first birthday and, oh yeah.  The stomach flu.  So that was fun.  Also: it was the only reason I threw up the whole first trimester.  SorryIsaidthrowup.

I haven't been here in a month.  And I really shouldn't be here now.  I have work to do.  I have to leave in an hour.  My daughter has decided to be whiney.  I'm behind on my Bible reading.  But for the moment, I've got a delicious cup of coffee (cheers to the end of constant nausea!) and I feel like catching up here.  So hello again, and you are welcome.  Or whatever.  I'm too tired to think.

I'm tired because it hurts to sleep.  I'm constantly exhausted, and my body hurts when I sleep.  My legs are uncomfortable.  My back feels twisty and tweaked.  My pillow feels like a brick.  If I sleep on my arm (and I always sleep on my arm) my shoulder feels like it's been ripped from its socket.  So I toss and turn.  I doze off.  I wake up and watch the blue numbers on the ceiling (it took me 1 1/2 minutes just now to remember how to write the word ceiling, but I think I did it) get slightly larger, then smaller, than larger again. 11:30.  12:15.  1:40.  2:30.  3:45.  ::Sigh::  And then 6:45 comes, and I feel more worked out the rested up, but it's fine.  The torture of night is done, so it's fine.

Besides nighttime, pregnancy is happy now.  I'm showing enough that people think "pregnant" not "letting herself go", and  I get my heart rate checked monthly (97/55 last it was checked, BOOYAH).

Yesterday, I got a couple comments about my appearance.  One individual chose to inform me that my pregnancy was showing in my face.  SRSLY?  Now, maybe people don't really care if they sound nice, or hurtful, or strange, and that's fine.  I'm not here to judge your intentions.  But if you're SHOOTING for nice, "pregnant in the face" is not hitting the mark.   Because besides "fat in the face, with a weird amount of acne", I'm really not sure what that could mean.

The second comment was... different.  Someone SWORE she knew me from "clubbing". Now personally, I do not "club".  I have never "clubbed".  I'm not sure what it entails.  It sounds intimidating and potentially aggressive.  But as it turns out, I didn't remind her of your average club visitor, I reminded her of someone in particular.  A pole dancer, in fact.  NOT  A STRIPPER, she was quick to point out, just "one of those people who dance around the poles, what are they called?"  Right.  She went on to insist that the way I carried myself, the way I leaned against a counter top when I was filling out paper work, my posture as I stood, the way I walk, it all screams pole dancer.  I. just... I don't... huh?!?

So apparently yesterday everything about me screamed fat-faced slut bag, or something pretty close to that.  I don't know how to respond.  I don't know how to stop being a fat-faced slut bag.  So I guess I'm going to have to write these off, and hope that today garners fewer comments from the peanut gallery.

Okay, that's enough of all that now.  Before I go, here is me today (13 1/2 weeks pregnant) and Baby Tres from last week (Just over 12 weeks old).  I got the pleasure of a surprise sonogram, just because my NP thought it would be fun.  I think I like her.  In one picture (s)he is rubbing his/her eye in one, and I think it is adorable.  Even though (s)he looks like a scary alien otherwise.

GIANT!!  Also, this is what a fat-faced pole dancer looks like.  You're welcome, WORLD, for the fact that I choose not to dance on poles.

Awwww

Happy Thursday friends, and VERY happy birthday to my dearest mother-in-law, on the off chance that you find this page :-)  Hope it's the best!