2014: Year of the Sexy Warthog.

On the cusp of this newest of years, I have decided to make a positive and exciting new resolution.  Positive and exciting because I'm not saying that I'll lose weight, or that I'll eat less, or that I'll be more organized or keep the house cleaner, even though all of these things are excellent things that I really should get around to doing.  Instead, I'm saying it's going to be a sexy year.  So I've dubbed it: The year of the Sexy Warthog.

According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2014 is the year of the Horse.  But according to the Chinese Zodiac, I am NOT a horse.  I am a Warthog.  And this is my year.  My sexy year.

Quick side note:  When someone, in an attempt to woo you in a bar, asks you for your sign,  and you proceed to tell them that you are a Warthog, they no longer proceed to woo you.  It seems the Chinese zodiacs have significantly less sexual appeal than the other kind of zodiacs.  

Side note to my side note:  All of this is a lie.  I'm pretty sure no one has ever tried to woo me by asking for my sign, and I spend zero time in bars, and I only pretty recently learned that I am a warthog.  I, in fact, have NO idea what would happen if you told someone in a bar that you were a warthog.  For all I know, they would totally dig it.  Maybe, give it a try sometime.  

So back to the point, 2014 is the year of the Sexy Warthog.  I will begin this year as a warthog who does not fit into her pants, and end it as a warthog who looks great in size 4 jeans, and who has really nice skin, and hair in only the places that you would want hair on a warthog.  In other words, I will get fit and toned.  I will dress myself in a way that is both mature and flattering.  And I'll put in the effort to make my skin nicer.  At age 30, recovering from kid 3, this feels like an admirable, but hopefully not unachievable goal.

Husband says he doesn't know what a sexy warthog would look like.  

I told him that pretty soon, he would know.  But in the mean time, here's a taste:

Grrrrrrrrrrrr

Well, that's all for 2013, folks.  Tonight, amidst all of the joyous revelry, spend some time reminiscing, and some time hoping and planning.  And if you find yourself being wooed at a bar, try out the warthog thing for me.  Let me know if it's any good. 

Body Feelings.

I have developed some very mixed feelings about my body. It's a phenomenon I've noticed in the first few months following each of the birth-givings.  I have a great number of feelings about my body that can best be described as "mixed". Or maybe... Vacillating. Clinically freaking bizarre and insane. Really, any of those will work. 

You see, Body and I have recently been through a lot together. We spent the last year making a whole person and then depositing him onto a table. And every part of that hurt. Like, bunches and bunches. But we survived it, Body and I, and we came through the other end, albeit much the worse for wear.    

I'm proud of Body because it survived. I'm proud of Body because it not only managed to produce a whole person, but said person is becoming quite the little chunk. All thanks to Body. You go, Body. 

The baby says he is sleepy, but would really like to stay up very very late, if it's all the same to me. It is not. 

But besides the whole "check out the amazing life-giving things Body can do", there are other reasons why I'm pleased as punch with my current state.

I can see my toes. 

I can touch my toes. 

I can sit on the couch with my feet beneath me and my knees pulled up against my torso. 

I can sit pretty much anyway that appeals to me. 

I can lie on my stomach. Praise the good Lord in heaven, I can lie on my stomach. 

When I hug my husband, it no longer feels like a weird shoulder hug, wherein my behind is shoved out half way to Nevada. 

I can breath. And, as it turns out, it's not even that hard. 

I no longer require a bottle of tums on my bedside table. 

And to top it off, I can even wear my wedding rings some days. 

This list is great. This list makes me feel strong and lithe and sexy and, well, human again. Of course, there's the other end of my swinging pendulum of feelings, and that side has its own, less encouraging list. 

I cannot fit in clothes. 

No really. I cannot fit in any clothes. 

My muffin top looks like it was never fully baked, so now it's starting to droop. 

Stretch marks have found new and exciting places to live. I think I may need skin replacement surgery. 

I started out this pregnancy just under 140. These days I'm stuck at around 170. That is a bigger number than I like and it makes me sad. 

Even though I don't always "see" the chubby chick version of myself in the mirror, I've seen some very convincing photographs to remind me that she is here. 

My back hurts. Kind of a lot. And I feel too heavy and out of shape to move properly. Harrumph. 

And I am sleepy. Always. 

So those are all my feelings. Each one is life-alteringly intense, I assure you.  And unfortunately, Brain is no help either. Because I can never quite decide: do I love and accept myself for who I am today, just relax and go with it? Or do I hate my body every day until I see some real changes?  Both opinions have their merits, but I can never quite decide which to choose. 

For the time being though, I'm doing my best to ignore all of it. Diet starts on January 2, when all the company and fatty food are gone, and enough time has passed to allow me to engage in some mild to moderate exercise. I hope. 

So for now, you'll have to pardon my sweatshirts and yoga pants. A thorough examination of my closest only served to remind me that I'd thrown out all of my jeans larger than size 8, and I am now too fat for my fat pants. Sigh. 

Have a wonderful last few days of 2013, folks, and remember: the diets start NEXT year. And what happens in 2013 totally doesn't count. G'night!

Do not be fooled by my greasy hair or my yoga pants. I am a freakin superhero.

Quick update: I have 3 kids now.  It happened in the super early morning on Sunday, November 24th, when I woke up with one of those classic "oh crap I think just peed on myself" moments.   Luckily, I was sane enough, even at 1 am, to conduct a science experiment on the matter (Develop a hypothesis.  Test the hypothesis. Like, go ACTUALLY pee, then note the basic differences in sensation.  Take thorough notes.) and felt suddenly quite certain that I had NOT peed myself, but had, instead, gotten my water all broken.  7 hours and a buncha stitches later, and boom.  It was done.  We got this:

Uh-dorable.  I know, right? His name is Harper Reid and he is precious to me.

Three kids is... interesting.  Three kids is a game changer.  When my second was born, I would've told anyone who asked that having 2 kids was somehow easier than having 1.  First off, you've been there done that.  You're an old pro.  Then, you have a 2 year old to hang out with if you're bored, and who is happy to do small chores like throwing away diapers and retrieving blankets from the other room.  It was nice.  It was relatively peaceful.

And now I have 3.  And I've forgotten what the definition of peaceful is.

I keep having the same image come to mind.  Basically, having 3 kids is like juggling.  Except I have no idea how to juggle, so having 3 kids is like tossing raw eggs into the air and then watching as they splat to the floor.  And also you haven't brushed your hair in almost a week.

The first evening I spent alone with my children (Real quick: when did it suddenly become so terrifying to be alone with my own children?  When did that become a marker in my life?) was the night before Thanksgiving.  I planned. I made lists.  I hustled.  I reheated my frozen enchiladas for dinner while I boiled yams to prep my side dish for the following day.  I prepped my pie crusts.  I fed the baby then put the older kids at the table for dinner, then pulled out pajamas and church clothes while I prepped their bath.  I smirked to myself that, as long as you're on top of it, having a larger family isn't so bad at all.

And then suddenly I turned around and my eldest was screaming because I had asked her to pick up her toys and she didn't want to pick up her toys. The middle child was screaming because I served him enchiladas when he REALLY wanted corn dogs.  The baby was screaming because he is a baby and babies want to be held constantly, and holding a baby constantly didn't fit into any of my to do lists.   And I wanted to be screaming because they were all screaming.  And also, I was about 3 days post- having pushed an 8lb 5oz human out my hoo-ha, and my everything was still very much in pain.  So there was also that.

With my face distorted in terror, with my eyes bulging out of my face, with my hands shaking helplessly at my sides, I stood there, frozen, and watched the eggs splat at my feet.  What.  The Bloody H. Did I get myself into.

Having said all that, I'd been dreading today.  I had a "Me and the 3 Kids Go to the Doctor" trip planned, wherein each of the older two would be receiving shots.  Screaming, flailing, bolting through the entire clinic... I just couldn't imagine a scenario wherein this would not be a painful, horrible, make you question the existence of true good in this world, kind of day.  Certainly, my biggest juggling feat to date.    And yeah... I'll be honest.  There was screaming.  From all of them (and to a lesser extent me), at different points.  Once, though, the two boys cried in unison, and then stopped at exactly the same moment.  It was FANTASTIC.  I'm thinking of sending them on tour.  Then my daughter cried (or more accurately, made very loud and embarrassing WAAAAAAAAHHHH noises) for a solid 10 minutes in anticipation of her shot, and then all the way to the car and most of the drive home. (PS: All she had done was a TB test and a finger-prick blood draw, get freaking OVER it child and stop acting like someone just tried to remove your spleen without using anesthetics.)  However I was eventually able to convince her to stop by suggesting that maybe, if the shot still hurt that bad, we should head back to the doctor's and have him take a look.  Suddenly, crying didn't seem so important I guess.

So long story shorter, we all survived the day.  I'm learning how to juggle.  And I'm also learning some cool new parenting techniques like scaring your children until they shut the heck up.  And that is why I am a superhero.  The end.

Oh yeah.  So here's a picture of us, first day home as a... "family".

Merry 5 days till Christmas!

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.