What’s it called when a veteran has a moment where s/he suddenly remembers what it felt like to be in combat and the fight or flight response kicks in?

Shell shock?

Flash backs?

Post-traumatic stress disorder?

Send-me-the-Jack-Daniels-STAT?

Because people. I can empathize.

Let me tell you a little story.

I have been insanely busy for the past month. Busy to the point that I cried myself to sleep last night about being overwhelmed and feeling alone in my overwhelmedness.

(I’m not alone. Dan’s here. But sometimes I, the chronic oversharer, become an itnernalizer, which makes me feel alone.)

Anyway, overwhelmed.

I drove over to pick Joshua up from daycare (after deciding not to go to McDonald’s for a caramel frappe as big as my head because of the calories) and realized there would be trouble as soon as I saw his daily report sheet.

NO NAP!!!

Just like that. In all caps not awesome. Screaming at my face about how my kid didn’t nap. With the exclamation points. (But he did pee in the potty twice, so there’s that.)

He had also only eaten 1 granola bar, some Cheerios, peaches, and some crackers all day, along with some milk at meals and water at snack times.

And then I looked in his room. He was playing trains. Intently. Carefully. Trains. His favorite.

He didn’t even realize I’d walked into the room despite the fact that his teacher and his toddler friends were all announcing my presence. He just kept playing trains.

Finally, he saw me and came over to give me a hug. And then his toddler friends vultured his trains right off their tracks. Which made him incredibly unhappy, as you can imagine.

Incredibly. Unhappy.

He began to wail. I tried to pick him up. He screamed. His teacher looked like he had suddenly become possessed by the Devil. I picked him up completely off the floor. He continued to wail. And scream. And scream some more. And cry.

And yell “I NO NEED MY MAMA!!”

(Gee. Thanks for that kid.)

We struggled all the way to the car where he began to hit me. And scream about how he didn’t need me. And put up a fight to get into his car seat complete with kicking and more screaming.

He let out an “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!” except the high-pitched squeal that I don’t know how to type. And I, frustrated over the past five minutes, screamed back. (Because apparently I’m 3.) Which made him cry more.

Then he took his shoes off in defiance. And demanded that I put them back on. I did that once before pulling out of the driveway at daycare. And then he took them right back off and cried more and more about needing to put his shoes back on.

I sent an emergency text smoke signals to Dan to tell him please for the love of Baby Jesus in the manger don’t work late tonight and come home post haste because I am two shakes away from completely losing my shit and I if I lose my shit it will be ugly.

(I was maybe slightly less dramatic than that.)

We got about three miles down the road and he was still screaming and the tears rose in my throat and I lost it. I started to cry. In that moment, I remembered what it had been like to be me at 2 and 3 and 4 months postpartum with a child in the backseat screaming his lungs out and me being able to do not a single thing to console him so I just drove around crying my own eyes out while he did the same.

I had the Ugly Cry Face and tears were streaming and I was kind of shoulder-heaving a little bit.

Joshua, from the back seat, shouts, “No, YOU don’t crying! I CRYING.”

Because that was helpful. Loads.

And I kept crying.

And then I hear, somewhat softer, with less tears, “No, don’t cry, Mama. No. It’s okay, Mama. Don’t cry.”

(MELT MY HEART.)

And just like that, his crying had stopped. My tears were magic tears that stopped his tears. Like I took them away from him or something. Some supernatural Mama-Love-Transference or something.

We both agreed that we wouldn’t cry anymore.

And we didn’t.

We rode home calm. Emotionally spent. Quiet. Conquerors of the NO NAP-induced meltdown.

At least until bath time when there was a Category 294920 meltdown that had me counting down the days until I am reunited with my friend Sauvignon Blanc.

Since Dan bought me a new camera, I figured the least I can do is use it. I may not know HOW to use it–yet–but I can certainly turn the thing on and take some pictures in Auto and then use Picasa to do light color correcting, right?

Sometimes we do interesting things during the week. Sometimes we do virtually nothing of any importance except stay in our pajamas and snuggle on the couch (this week).  But, again, the least I can do is take pictures of it.

So, I present to you “What We Did This Week.” (This is Week 1, just in case you needed any clarification.)

Sunday: "CHEESE"

Tuesday: Smelling the flowers outside. At night.

Tuesday: One of our daffodils. They make me think of William Wordsworth.

Wednesday: Joshua said "No, ME do it." So he did. He's a natural.

Wednesday: The dog and her old tricks. High five, Annie!

Thursday: It was beautiful so we decided to bust out the sidewalk chalk.

Thursday: Of course he wanted to draw trains and wagons. Of course he did.

Friday: Play-dough bought me enough time to drink a cup of coffee.

So, that was our week. Sort of. Kind of lame to some but Joshua seemed to enjoy most of it. And I got to enjoy hanging out with him. And I also learned that it’s easier to take pictures of flowers than it is toddlers or dogs.

What did you do this week?

Basically I’ve decided that my kid is the cutest kid ever. And no, you don’t have to agree with me that MY kid is the cutest kid ever. Since I’m his mom, my opinion in this matter is kind of the only one that counts.

But OMG. He’s a kid. Sure, I still call him “toddler.” And technically, to some degree, I guess he is.

But y’all, he has a personality. He remembers things in one situation and applies them to other situations. He carries on conversations. He has opinions.

HE IS A REAL BOY.

So, because he’s the cutest kid ever, and mine, and since this blog is technically supposed to be about how I’m Momming him and all that jazz, I’ve decided to institute a weeklyish, or biweeklyish, or whenever I have half a second of spare time, “meme” about how he’s the cutest kid ever. I mean, how am I going to remember these things otherwise, right?

Here’s a collection of our conversations this week:

Sunday night, post-bath pajama time. I’m tickling his arm pits with my face. Because they are clean. He finally stops laughing and says “You not being very nice right now, Mama. You play nicewee.” Score one for the Mama for teaching the kid manners! (And daycare. They certainly get credit for that, too.)

Wednesday afternoon, pre-nap snuggles. He’s sitting in my lap and he puts his hand on my chest and says “You my sweet heart, Mama. You silly goose.” I turned into a puddle in the chair and ran to Twitter to share his cute with the universe.

And then there was the kissing.

Last night, he was having a super hard time getting settled. We ran behind on bath/bed time. Dan was stressed. I had to watch and review American Idol. Joshua was whining and crying from his room and it was a terrible, horrible, no good, really bad evening and nothing was going the way it should have gone. I went into Joshua’s room to hold him for a minute to see if I could get him settled down and asleep.

I grabbed him up and we snuggled into the chair in his room and he started kissing my arm.

Then he said “I need kiss you elbow.” So he kissed my elbow.

Then he said “I need kiss you face.” So he kissed my face.

Then he grabbed my hand and kissed my hand.

The kid was planting kisses everywhere and I was giggling and so incredibly confused (until this morning) but loving all the love.

This morning he asked to “play Mama’s phone” which means he wants to watch videos on YouTube. So I let him. He navigated himself to his favorites and found a Baby Einstein video and before I knew it, he was kissing my arm again. I looked over at the video and the duck puppet was dressed in pajamas and kissing all of the stuffed animals goodnight.

So then we had a kissing war and I’m pretty sure I won.

He had a near meltdown over the fact that I brought his basketball goal back inside the house in advance of the impending rain (that is nowhere to be seen as of this moment). ::side-eye:: to you, Weather Channel. But even this meltdown was cute because y’all, THE HORRORS of having a basketball goal INSIDE the house. It’s so hard to be 3.

And then he brought me the unopened Swiffer 360 duster my friend Kim sent for when I have to break down more doors. He said “I need open dis yewwow.” I said “If I open this, you’re going to start cleaning.” And he said “I needa cween!” Well, okay, kid.

Speaking of “well, okay,” he says that. All the time.

“Joshua, do you want to go outside?”

“Well, okay.”

“Joshua, do you want to brush your teeth?”

“Well, okay.”

“Joshua, do you want milk or juice?”

“Well, okay.”

This, y’all, this is the reason I have a hard time sending him to daycare when I’m on a break from school. These are the things I’d miss.

Gah. Cutest kid ever.

Remember how I fired my previous doctor for being an arrogant jackass? Tuesday was my first appointment with the new OB. He’s totally not an arrogant jackass, which is good.

I’m still processing the appointment, quite honestly. I’m not sure what I went into this appointment expecting, really, but…I mean…it was kind of bizarre at times. And I waited forever to be seen. But I’m not entirely bothered by some of it while some of it leaves me feeling underwhelmed.

My first impression upon walking in was that the waiting room was really small and stuffy without a ton of seating. It felt cramped and a little claustrophobic. I signed in and sat down and waited to be called for my insurance card and ID and then I filled out some paperwork. And we waited. And read magazines. And waited. And played around on our phones. And waited.

And then we waited some more.

My appointment time was 9:30. I think it was nearly 11:00 before we were called back. And then we were only called back to a secondary waiting room and that room, too, was crowded. In fact, most of the place was crowded. The rooms I could see were crowded. The “hallways” were crowded.

The bathroom was across the “hall” from the “lab,” so instead of having the little metal door beside the toilet to leave my “specimen,” I had to exit the bathroom with it and put it on a counter inside the “lab.” I kept thinking “please don’t trip and spill this! Please don’t trip and spill this!”

From everything I could tell, the doctor doesn’t contract with one of the lab companies who places a tech on location for blood draws, so all blood work is drawn by a nurse or someone who perhaps doesn’t do this with the same level of precision as someone who draws blood all day. Quite honestly, that makes me nervous because I’m pretty particular when it comes to my veins.

The scale was old school.

There were kitschy posters on the walls.

I think there was an NST taking place in what doubles as a supply closet.

It felt like it was a zillion degrees in there (though the thermostat said 72).

And then I had to remind myself that none of that was the reason I was there.

Was the space and environment as nice as what I’m used to? No, it certainly wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

But after talking with my mama, I realized I’m tired of going to the OB and paying for the paintings they hang on their walls and white noise machines in every exam room and being treated like a cog in a machine. And that’s one of the things I realized by the physical appearance of the new doctor’s office compared to the old.

Sure, the old office was newer, less “lived-in,” while this place is quite clearly well-loved and lived-in. But the people here listened to me. And when I say “listened” I mean they heard me.

The doctor’s wife did my medical history intake. She shared snippets of stories about how she’s been pregnant 6 times and all of them were different.

When I said I’d come there because I wanted a VBAC, she said I’d come to the right place. That I could guarantee that if he had to cut me, it was because there was no other way. That no matter how often it had inconvenienced them through the years, made them arrive late to personal commitments, her husband treated each patient like a top priority when in labor, even if it was sometimes hard to wrangle him into a room in the office.

And then we waited some more for the doctor to come in, and finally, he did.

He finished asking the medical history questions and we talked about what my labor had been like with Joshua. He tracked down my file from my previous doctor’s office himself. He reviewed every step of this pregnancy commenting on blood work they’d done that had been unnecessary. (Like the screening to determine if I was an IV drug user…uh, no. No I’m not, thanks.)

He double-checked my due date. (It’s still the same.)

He asked if I had any questions and truthfully, I didn’t have any. I always feel inadequate when I don’t have questions.

And then he said things that made my VBACtivist heart flutter.

• His rate of c-section is about 10%.
• Insurance companies must stop dictating how births in this country proceed because the insurance companies aren’t the ones in the trenches.
• It bothers him that hospitals adopt policies that allow for no gray areas in their interpretation of said policies because sometimes those policies aren’t mother and baby friendly.
• He cannot, and would never, guarantee a VBAC. But he does guarantee that options will be exhausted before resorting to a surgical delivery.

He did a quick tummy check and walked me to the check-out counter himself. And that was it. My first appointment was done. I left feeling hungry. And tired from the waiting. And happy to have a doctor who will actually help me try to VBAC this baby without paying lip-service to my wishes.

I’m glad I made this change.

I always struggle with whether or not I should send Joshua to daycare when I’m home on a break. I feel like such a slacker mom, but I know that he loves his school and his friends and I do love being able to sleep and get things done.

Last night as we were driving home from dinner with friends, Dan said that if Joshua woke up early this morning, he’d do the daycare drop-off so I could rest after last week’s marathon of go-go-go. (LOVE THAT MAN.)

True to Joshua fashion, he started crying and whining at 6:00 a.m. which meant Dan would take him to daycare.

(Sidenote–Is mine the only toddler who wakes up crying and whining instead of talking? He’s perfectly happy, but he wakes up whining and crying instead of calling out to either of us.)

I slapped around on the side table to find my glasses, put them on, and stumbled down the hallway to his room, groaning in my head about how early it was.

I threw open his bedroom door and flipped on the light, shielding my eyes against the brightness of the room.

“Good morning!” I called out, with semi-fake cheerfulness in my voice.

“Guh mornin’, Mama,” he replied, with nothing but genuine cheerfulness in his.

I lifted Joshua out of his crib and he laid his head on my shoulder, getting in a morning Mama Snuggle. Then he squirmed his way down to the floor, saying “I need change my soaky butt!”

I must have looked unusually not my self, because he asked “Why you sad, Mama!? Don be sad!”

In truth, I was sad. I’m always sad when I think about sending him to daycare when I’m going to be home, even if I know it’s good for both of us. (And I’m always sad to be waking up at 6 a.m. but that’s beside the point.)

“I’m not sad, Joshua. Just sleepy.”

“Jus sweepy…”

I helped him stand up and he retrieved his Thomas the Train flashlight from the bookshelf where we’d put it the night before. Then he spotted the box of Thomas books in the floor.

“I needa weed dis books, Mama!” And he sat down on the floor and opened the box.

“Thomas needa weed Cwack in da Twack.” So Thomas the flashlight got a book.

“Annie needa weed Bwue Train, Gween Train.” So Annie got a book.

“Mama needa weed Stop, Twain, Stop!” So I got a book.

“I needa weed Go, Twain, Go.” So he got a book, too.

And we sat there, at 6:00 in the morning, reading books in his bedroom floor. Joshua, me, the dog, and the flashlight, each with a book of our own.

My work here is done, people. I have a happy boy who loves to read.

Both my Mama Heart and my English Teacher Heart are full.

“In the Heaven of Indra, there is said to be a network of pearls, so arranged that if you look at one you see all the others reflected in it. In the same way each object in the world is not merely itself but involves every other object and in fact IS everything else.”
- Sir Charles Eliot, in his Japanese Buddhism

“All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.”
—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in his Letter from Birmingham Jail

I’m planning a VBAC for this pregnancy.

That’s really not a secret if you’ve been around here for any length of time. But what may be a secret to some is WHY I’m planning a VBAC.

In short, when Joshua entered the world I was treated like an object and not like a person.

Nearly three years later, I’m still not over that experience. I carry its memory with me every day.

That experience has become fuel for my current experience. It is one of my biggest fears of this pregnancy. It’s the reason why I changed providers with 11 weeks to go.

My experience with Joshua’s delivery has also become fuel for VBAC advocacy in general because VBAC is not the popular choice when it comes to second-time-around deliveries (or third, or fourth).

Some women go their entire pregnancies without a doctor ever mentioning VBAC to them. They carry shame and guilt from their first delivery experience. They hear the word “failure” and are told they should just be happy they have a healthy baby because a healthy baby (with no mention of a healthy mother) is all that matters. Their feelings regarding their first experience are invalidated.

They are mis- or uninformed and never know there’s another way.

In some places, VBAC isn’t a choice for women at all. In some places, VBACs are actually against the law. Medical professionals cannot offer them and hospitals cannot, or refuse to, allow them.

The reasons for this are many and not exactly relevant to this particular discussion (though I’m happy to discuss those reasons should anyone wish to have said discussion).

What is relevant, however, is the word “choice.”

Choice is a word bandied about in Feminist circles. Well, in all the circles, really. We talk about choice as if we all have one to make. As if all choices are equal.

I don’t believe they are.

When it comes to some things, sure, we have choices. I can choose to wash my hair in the morning or just use dry shampoo. I can choose whether I want burgers or spaghetti for dinner. I can choose which political candidate will receive my vote and then go and cast that vote.

Sometimes, however, I believe we only have a choice insofar as the choice we make does not cause someone else to be unable to make a different or opposite choice.

When the default choice of many care providers is an elective, repeat c-section, it becomes that much more difficult for those of us wishing to do the opposite to actually achieve that desired outcome.

And that’s the problem with “choice.”

“Ah, but Miranda,” you say, “What if the woman WANTS an elective, repeat c-section? What if that IS her CHOICE?”

Well, I can support that.

I can see the legitimacy of choosing when to have your new baby so that things can best be planned and timed to accommodate the schedules of everyone involved. (I won’t lie. I’ve thought about it.)

I can understand why some women who’ve been through nightmarish ordeals would want the control that can come with a c-section the second time around. I can see why, for medical reasons, women would opt to have a c-section instead of a VBAC.

I would never advocate forcing all women into a VBAC and I don’t truly think anyone else would either. Not in all cases whatsoever no matter what.

There are always circumstances where women should be given the choice of a repeat c-section over a trial of labor and VBAC.

BUT.

(Life Lesson: There is almost always a “but.”)

But the fact is that this particular choice is taken away from women at rates higher than that at which this choice is given.

Despite my own personal desire to VBAC this baby—my baby—I support a woman’s right to choose a repeat c-section.

I will get vocal about another woman’s right to choose a c-section provided she also raises her voice in support of my choice to avoid another one.

To me, it’s not enough for us just to say to another woman “I support you and your decision!” and then sit idly by while that woman fights her own battles. That’s lip-service.

If you support her decisions, then fight alongside her.

Lend her your strength—your voice—when she is weak so that when she is strong she can return the same to you.

Ultimately, this is about more than just c-sections versus VBACs. This is about all of our common fates and destinies.

I believe in the Heaven of Indra. I believe in the “inescapable network of mutuality.”

I believe that the choices we make reach further than we can know. That we are all connected. That we must make our choices with the knowledge that our choices affect those whom we have never met.

I believe that if we are to effect change in the world, if we are to exercise control over our individual situations, then we must look at our situations as the situations of all women and move forward from there.

I believe we are all in this together and that one woman’s fight is the fight of all women.

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.”
–John Donne

We haven’t really had winter here in Georgia this year. I mean sure, technically winter started on December something-or-other, but we’ve had more days with temps in the 60s and short sleeves than we’ve had days with temps (or even overnight lows) in the 30s. It’s bizarre to say the least, and kind of makes me scared for whatever The Universe has in store for us this summer. (Likely, hot as the surface of the sun by mid-June when June is usually the mild month and Hell for July, August and September.)

Anyway, when winter refuses to properly visit Georgia, Georgia creates winter for itself.

Georgia is like Jack Bauer that way.

Stone Mountain is an…landmark? park? city? in Atlanta that has seasonal attractions. Or maybe it’s a theme park of sorts??

(Apparently, Stone Mountain is really hard to explain unless you’ve been there. And I’ve only been three times in my whole life, so the difficulty abounds.)

During the winter months, Stone Mountain creates an attraction called Snow Mountain. They blow in “snow” and there’s inner-tubing and a play area for kids to build snowpeople all at the foot of the mountain.

Last weekend, our friends called up and asked if we wanted to join them for a trip to Snow Mountain. Because we’ve never been and because we’re usually lame and don’t do things like this on the weekends, we said “Sure!” And then thought, “Now what?”

My first reaction was to send Dan to the nearest electronics store to buy a camera. (Yes, seriously. It was one of the “bucket list” items I had before New Girl arrives–get a new camera.) He obliged and picked up a Canon Rebel T3 while I was at a basketball game. (DSLR was not our intention but the price was unbeatable, so here I am.)

And then we did a little more “Now what”-ting.

I mean, it was supposed to be 60 degrees last Sunday (and it was). We don’t have snow gear because we live in Georgia. And would we even need it? We didn’t know.

We also didn’t care very much either and just sort of threw on whatever seemed most appropriate and hoped for the best.

I took lots and lots of pics with the new camera and now I’m going to bombard you with some of them. (Keep in mind I have no idea what I’m doing with this camera and can’t really learn until I get through basketball season. I also only used the auto features in Picasa to edit them.)

I’d say “the best” is about as good a phrase as any to describe our adventure. Enjoy!

Stone Mountain

Joshua and his buddy

My boys!

"Dis cold, Mama."

"Dis fun!!"

Joshua riding in the "donut."

We stopped to admire someone else's Snowman handiwork. Also, I'm surprised I made it up from that squat without falling on my assets.

Funnel cake to finish the day.

As the conversation continues on yesterday’s post about whether or not I should (and can) make the leap from working mom to SAH, the conversation has to veer slightly toward my part-time dream job for TV Fanatic.

I need some help from my friends.

Tonight I’ll start covering Real Housewives of Orange County for their sister-site The Hollywood Gossip.

Except I know nothing about these women as my allegiances are firmly with Team Smalls and Kim over at the Atlanta housewives.

(I mean, MAYBE we talk about these women like we know them. And we certainly go “OMG! WE KNOW THAT PLACE!” when they roll past in their Escalades and Bentleys on the show. And by WE I most certainly mean me AND DAN since he’s the reason I started watching those crazy bitches friends in the first place.)

So, to lighten things up around here, I need a crash course!

Who are the villains? Who are the heroes? Who’s had the most plastic surgery? Who’s married for money and who’s married for love? Are any of them even married?

(Only two of the Atlanta housewives are currently married on the show, though three are married in real life. And one of them, I think, has never been married and is still a housewife. o_o )

Tell me everything you know about the Real Housewives of Orange County. Ready…set…GO.

I’ve seen the SAHM vs Working Mom battle waged time and again but this is NOT that battle. At least not really. I mean, it is, but only as it relates to me and my situation. And you and yours if your feelings happen to also be my feelings. If not, no harm, no foul. Just keep on doing your thing.

Here’s the thing: my hackles get raised every time I see the “I can’t let daycare raise my child” bit from a SAHM. But not because I disagree with what she’s saying.

My blood pressure rises ever so slightly when I read things like that because, in almost every way, I feel like daycare has done an awful lot of the raising of my child. And not necessarily in the “it takes a village” sense.

And then comes the argument from the other side. “My” side: “Daycare’s certainly not awake when my child is screaming at 2 in the morning! If daycare were raising my child, it would be!”

So then I go, “yeah, but I don’t exactly want to be awake with a screaming child at 2 a.m. either” and I think back to all the smiles and finger painting and fun my child has at daycare. Without me. All of the good things I miss.

Early on in this pregnancy, I found myself completely overwhelmed when I thought back to Joshua’s early months.

The ones where I took a 4 month old to band camp. The ones where he refused to nurse any longer. The ones where I picked him up in the afternoons only to take him back to school with me for another hour and a half or two. The ones where no one slept. The ones where I couldn’t do it all.

The ones after I went back to work.

In some ways, going back to work saved me a little. It gave me a place to hide from the screaming ball of poop and lungs that I couldn’t understand. It gave me a place to feel more like myself in the face of the PPD that threatened to take over my soul.

But in others, it just made me feel like less of a mom.

I remember, somewhat vividly, because that’s what PPD does to people, the feeling that daycare got all of the good parts of Joshua while I got all of the bad. And I do mean all.

He was always cranky in the evenings. He always wanted to go straight to bed almost as soon as we got home. Then he was up two or three times a night. We couldn’t find a rhythm that left both of us happy and content. And the weekends were no help because we’d spend two days trying to figure things out only to realize we had to go back to work on Monday and everything would just be all screwed up again.

I felt like I didn’t know my son. I didn’t know what he liked or what he was capable of doing and not doing yet. I’d get the milestone emails and I’d skim them because reading them in-depth made me realize I didn’t know if he’d reached those particular milestones yet. I stumbled over developmental questions at the pediatrician because I didn’t have the answers.

I felt like I couldn’t be present as his mother because so many other things also demanded my immediate and undivided attention. So when I felt the word “simplify” tugging at my heart early on in this pregnancy, I was both shocked and, well, not shocked.

There’s a very huge part of me that wants to stay at home next year, and for several years beyond that should situations allow it. I want to see New Girl’s firsts in a way that I didn’t see those firsts with Joshua. I want to be there for her good moments and not just her bad ones.

Thankfully, Dan’s job has been good to him this year (I mean, it started last year). Financially, right now at least, this is looking pretty possible for us. And really, the financial aspect of this potential change is one I understand and am most prepared to handle. Sure, there will be belt tightening and couponing and simpler living. I can do that.

But how do I do this emotionally? How do I prepare myself for the adjustment of hanging up my teacher hat? For just being a mom and not a mom who drops her kids off with someone else so she can go and spend time with other people’s children five days a week? How do I step out of my career knowing full well that in this economy, there’s no guarantee I can step back into it in the foreseeable future?

How do I make the right choice?

As I begin this tale, know two things:

One, when you are pregnant the urge to pee is pretty undeniable and quite constant.

Two, once you are a mom you will never, under any circumstance, be allowed to forget that you are, in fact, a mom.

Got that? Okay, good.

Last week was a pretty crazy week. (This week is no less crazy but thinking about that makes me want to cry.)

I flew around the house Friday morning trying to make absolutely certain I had everything I needed to take Joshua with me to at least part of our basketball games that evening. Snacks? Check. Some toys? Check. The iPhone charger for his Youtube addiction? Check. And out the door we ran.

I picked him up from daycare that afternoon, grabbing a couple of diapers from his cubby just in case, and back to the school we went. Joshua loves to go watch “baskissball” at the school. Or, you know, climb up and down the bleachers like a crazy man and flirt with my cheerleaders by pretending to ignore them or be embarrassed when they say hi. I’m infinitely grateful for his willingness to be dragged around that school. Infinitely.

Midway through one of the games, Dan came to pick Joshua up and take him home so he wouldn’t miss bedtime. I kissed my boys goodbye and went off in search of some other teachers for adult conversation.

At some point, I reached into my right jacket pocket for my Chapstick and realized that the pocket also contained three diapers, a trial sized pack of wipes, an ink pen, and my car keys. Feeling unbalanced somehow I checked the other pocket and discovered my wristlet, a dozen or so crayons poached from various restaurants, and a couple of race cars–Lightning McQueen and Francesco Bernoulli from Cars 2.

I chuckled at the randomness of it all.

Our student section turned out in decent force on Friday night to watch a pretty intense couple of games of basketball. As such I had to sit on the opposite side of the gym from where I normally like to sit. Our gym is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen because there’s not, at least in my opinion, clearly defined home and away seating. You enter on one side of the bleachers and to get to the bleachers on the other side of the court you have to cross behind the goals. All that exists on the far side of the gym are seats. And to go to the bathroom during the game, as pregnant women often need to do, you have to pick the perfect moment to cross the gym in the space behind the goals in order to take care of business.

As a pregnant lady, I am nothing if not somewhat reluctant to waddle my way across a gym, up some stairs, and into a bathroom. So I decided I’d just hold it until after the game. And drink a Diet Coke while watching the game and holding it.

To say I had to pee upon the conclusion of the game is kind of an understatement.

Once the final buzzer sounded, I said goodbye to the people I’d been sitting with, gave some announcements to the cheerleaders about the following day’s game, and then headed to the toilet to get some relief.

Just when I thought I wouldn’t make it, my pants were down and relief was mine. At the exact same moment that I started peeing, I heard the voice of Lightning McQueen say “Man, I’m glad to see you!”

It was like the toy in my pocket read my mind.

I’m pretty sure The Universe chuckled. I know I did.

Even when Joshua’s not with me, I’m reminded of all the ways my life is different–better, funnier–with him in it.

Tomorrow is the first of the last doctor’s appointments I’ll have with my current OB. But not because I’m close to the end of my pregnancy with New Girl. (Even though technically, no matter how much I want to deny its approach, the end IS growing nigh.)

Tomorrow is the first of the last because at 28 weeks pregnant I’ve decided to switch care providers and hospitals.

After my last appointment, the one with Dr. Blowhard, unease grew in my belly almost as rapidly as New Girl has. I’ve played that appointment over and over in my head trying to figure out if I read things in the doctor’s words that he didn’t intend. In short, I just don’t think I did.

Last Tuesday I called my current OB’s office to ask a simple question–what happens if the doctor I do not want to see, Dr. Blowhard, is on call when I go into labor?

The receptionist didn’t have an answer. In fact, she seemed downright puzzled. Like she understood the idea that some women may prefer not to see certain doctors but no one had ever questioned the on-call practices before.

She referred me to the office manager.

He never called me back.

That was my sign.

Despite any reassurances I may have gotten from the doctor, my doctor, whose name is on the door, I know that staying with this practice will greatly inhibit my ability to VBAC this baby and for reasons I’ll explain in another post (one that isn’t being typed on my phone while I’m “coaching” at a high school basketball game) I desperately want to VBAC this baby.

I think in some ways I’ve known this entire pregnancy that a VBAC was made less likely by staying where I am right now. By staying comfortable.

I think I’ve tried to rely on naïveté to get me through this delivery when that’s anything but my usual approach to unknown situations. I’m not one to fly into the big things lightly.

And this, y’all, is a really big thing.

So last week I called the most highly recommended OB for VBAC mamas in the area and, with few questions asked, I became his new patient.

When the receptionist asked why I was seeking a transfer, I told her, simply, that I wanted to VBAC. There was no scoffing at my wishes or condescension for my desires. When I told her how far along I was, there was no balking, no “oh, we don’t take patients that far along.” No excuses.

There were no questions asked at all.

There was only acceptance.

So tomorrow I’ll wake up, shower, drink that orange drink they gave me at the last appointment, and drive myself to the office for the blood draw. And on Thursday I’ll go back to discuss the results. And as long as I passed the one-hour test when I check out I’ll turn in my request for a transfer of my medical records to a new practice. One with a doctor who believes in the kind of delivery I want–a delivery concerned not solely with the outcome of a healthy baby but also in the process of helping mothers–helping me–have the birth others tell them is unlikely or impossible.

One in which I am not labelled a failure no matter the outcome.

Some of you know that last year I had a little thing going that I started on Facebook as a way of keeping Idol out of my status updates and annoying my friends because you were there with me. That sort of grew into a little group of us who got together every week to snark on the contestants and judges. And soon enough, I had the crazy idea to spread Idol Snark over to Twitter using #idolsnark as a hashtag. And other people joined in. And I was excited.

**sidenote: I completely blame Dan for my watching Idol. He watched it and I started watching it because he watched it and for a long time it was the only show we watched together. I also blame him for my love of those crazy bitches on the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

Anyway.**

Are you ready to be let in on a little secret?

Sometimes the internet does not suck.

It’s true. I know I’ve written about the internet and how it can suck before. (And yes, if you’re wondering, the friend request is still just sitting there. In friend request purgatory.)

But sometimes, the internet is the complete opposite of suck.

Today is one of those days.

(Except for that whole SOPA/PIPA thing. That is most definitely The Suck.)

ANYWAY.

So y’all know I love The Vampire Diaries, right?

(Stop rolling your eyes that I’m talking about this again and just stay with me.)

One day, I was just Tweeting up a storm about my new-found love for all things Salvatore when I suddenly found myself the recipient of the contact information for one of the guys who runs TV Fanatic. And they were looking for a new reviewer for their staff.

I pretty much grinned from ear to ear and my head exploded with happy at the thought of even maybe having a chance of doing two things I love:

• watching television
• writing

Then you throw in the third aspect:

Getting PAID to watch TV and write about it. INCONCEIVABLE. (If you can’t name that movie, I disown you.)

To say that I was interested is putting it mildly. I was interested on steroids. And crack. And speed. (ON not IN.)

I sent off an email and waited. And checked my email about 493832484 times. And waited some more.  And then checked the clock and realized that it’d only been about an hour and it was a Sunday and normal people did normal-people things on Sunday and I should just calm.the.eff.down.

And then I got an email back that, yes, they were looking for reviewers and could I send a list of shows I watch.

COULD I SEND A LIST?

Psha. I have a color-coded calendar complete with which show is being recorded at what in which room and when it premieres and goes on hiatus for the duration of its season!

(The above is a slight exaggeration. I do make a calendar at the beginning of TV season so that I can make sure my DVR and TiVo are set accordingly. [Yes I have both.] And so I can include any new shows into my schedule so that I don’t forget to record and/or watch them. The calendar is not, however, color-coded.)

The show they needed me to review?

American Idol.

Tonight is the season 11 premiere of Idol. And it’s my tv reviewing debut.

I have always said that my dream job would be one where I could get paid to write about TV.

Sometimes, dreams really do come true.

You’re coming with me on this new adventure, right? I couldn’t do this without you.

So, in case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant. (If you didn’t know this, I need you to send me ice cream as penance. Immediately.)

I was technically pregnant when I went to San Diego last August. I just didn’t know it yet.

One of my roommates, Suz, was undergoing fertility treatments. There may have been talks pre-BlogHer about progesterone and awkward moments at airport security when she’d have to explain what, exactly, she had in that cooler.

Another of my roommates, Alena, had an entire conversation with me in our hotel wherein at some point she randomly declared in a most confused fashion that she’d just spend the previous 15 minutes rubbing her own stomach.

I think Diana may have cried a time or two when talking to her own mother on the phone about her daughter Bella and how Bella was doing in Diana’s absence.

I got home on Monday and tested and discovered our Happy Accident.

The following month, Alena was pregnant.

And then one Saturday morning we all got an email from Suz with an ultrasound picture OF TRIPLETS.

Today? Diana announced that there’s a bun in her oven.

Yes, people. You did that math correctly.

ALL FOUR OF US ARE PREGNANT.

Between us, SIX BABIES will be born this year between April (that’s me, practically on deck ) and August.

Just call us the BlogHer fertility genies. We accept payment for belly rubs in the form of ice cream, pickles, donuts, and salt & vinegar potato chips.

(Our friend Amy from Baby Baby Lemon announced today that she’s pregnant as well. With twins. EIGHT BABIES. FIVE WOMEN.)

I wrote last night’s post and it felt kind of disjointed even as I was writing it. So when I re-read it and then read some of the comments (which, thank you for those) I felt like perhaps I’d been misleading in my writing by mentioning the Mommy Wars.

Yes, posts about the Mommy Wars were published this week by women I consider my friends.

No, my post about opinions is not based on my desire to respond to either of those posts.

(My whole e-spiral from Monday night actually started because of a post on a message board about The Vampire Diaries. True story. And I only sort of wish I were kidding.)

I referenced those posts because those posts sparked an outpouring of opinions in others, but also because of what I added to the bottom of my post after I remembered what had been my entire point in posting all along while brushing my teeth.

Posts like that, which are based on the opinions and experiences of the author, often leave me feeling like I’ve somehow done something wrong, or am doing something wrong, or will do something wrong. And I have a deep-seeded (seated?) desire not only to not be wrong because I enjoy being right but also, and mostly, because I don’t want to disappoint people.

I am an opinionated people-pleaser.

Contradiction much?

I think my desire to please others is what keeps me from saying some of the things I really want to say. I’m rational enough to know that while there will be those who will disagree with me, there will likely be those who don’t. But it’s those who will disagree who keep me from speaking up or out on just about anything. And that’s maybe slightly irrational.

::sigh::

I didn’t used to be this girl.

I don’t even know how to begin writing what I’m about to write. In my head, this is all over the place. Maybe it’s just a little more word vom for your week and you’ll go “OMG AWFUL!” and click the red X and run away screaming. That’s cool. I just feel like I need to dump this out before I quit the internet for realz.

If I had to list qualities about myself that I see as being both good and bad, opinionated would be at the top of that list. (Though I say “passionate” when I’m being positive.)

I’m opinionated, y’all. About pretty much everything. Except what we’re having for dinner. And the fact that I usually have no opinion on what to have for dinner pretty much drives Dan nuts on a daily basis. But that’s not even kind of the opinion I’m talking about here.

I’ll be the first to admit that I can sometimes be…hmmm…how should I say it…forward? with my opinions? Outspoken?

Because I can be. And I know this. And KNOWING this has caused me to pull back in some ways, especially online. (Yes, people who know me. I’m being honest. I don’t say nearly as much as I want to say half the time. Weird, right?)

True story: I’m not nearly as opinionated around here as I could be, or even as I’d sometimes like to be, because I realize that my opinions might be alienating.

But there’s something stifling about that.

Because these opinions that I have? They’re my opinions. Just like your opinions are your opinions and your friend’s opinions are their opinions and so on and so forth until the ends of the Universe. And the world keeps spinning despite the fact that we all have these opinions that are sometimes radically different from those of our neighbor.

And yet I feel compelled to hold back when it comes to my opinions on issues for fear of 1) making y’all angry and tearing down what’s been built up here, 2) attracting all kinds of drama, or 3) both.

I’m of the opinion ( o_o ) that not all opinions are of the horrible variety just because they are opinions. Some can simply add to the discussion in thoughtful ways that shed light on a different side of the story.

So yesterday when posts were published on various battles in the “Mommy Wars,” I sat here and read them and formed opinions (not necessarily opposing ones, at least not completely) about these topics, but I don’t know how to share them here. Or there. Or anywhere, really.

Because of the charged nature of those two discussions, I feel like my thoughts would automatically be lumped into the horrible category no matter how I couched them. At least some people would think those opinions are horrible. And if they think those opinions are horrible, does that mean that by extension, I become horrible?

(See also: Miranda has issues.)

I don’t know what, exactly, to do with that.

In the entire Blogoverse, it seems like there’s room enough for all of us to share our opinions in thoughtful ways. There should be. But more often than not, it feels like there isn’t space for all of us. For me.

But maybe that’s just my issue. (Likely.)

How do you deal with knowing that you have something to say and knowing that you really want to say that something but worrying that you’ll offend people, or hurt people you care about, when that’s not your intent? Because I’m stumped. And I certainly don’t want people to think I’m horrible.

Update-ish:

People, I think I just had an apostrophe. (Name that movie.)

I lost my train of thought no less than 47 times while I was writing this thanks to Shipping Wars and tried to wrap this post up so I could go to bed. A place I should’ve been 2 hours ago. But I remembered part of why I think opinions are so difficult while brushing my teeth (Don’t pretend like you don’t get your best ideas while doing mundane things.) and thought I’d come back here and add this little nugget of thought.

Opinions are tough for me because I have issues. (This has been previously established, yes?)

So when I read other people’s opinions, my rational mind accepts that as that person’s opinion independent of my own and moves along.

My irrational mind, however, is a psychotic bitch.

The irrational part of my brain reads an opinion different from my own and sees judgment for having a different opinion, or for having done things differently, or for wanting to do things differently, even when absolutely no judgment is implied.

Conversely, I think I’m scared to share my opinions on here because of the same thing. Crazy, irrational, psychotic bitch minds that think I’m judging when I’m not.

So NOW what?

I wrote a while ago about my smoke nose. The chronic, disgusting, burning sensation that there is always someone smoking a cigarette in my presence. Except no one is.

I finally screwed up the courage to consult Dr. Google and found the word “phantosmia,” which basically means “olfactory hallucinations.”

So the tiny person who runs my nose is tripping on acid and smoking like a chimney at the same time. Or something like that.

People, here’s the problem when you consult Dr. Google like I did.

You find all sorts of people who are convinced that they are dying.

A Google of “I smell smoke all the time when no one around me is smoking” yields results that would make Dr. House happy. (Yes, that’s what I Googled first, followed by “pregnant smelling smoke all the time” and variations of the same. Keywords are not necessarily my thing.)

What I found first was that I’m most certainly not alone with my smoke nose. There are others like me. We should get together and form a support group.

What I found second was that no one seems to know what causes this but everyone loves to speculate. Probably because everyone loves to go on those message boards proclaiming “THIS IS THE WEIRDEST THING EVER!” and then never go to a medical professional about it.

Possible causes, as far as I can tell, include, but are not, I’m sure, limited to:

• a brain tumor
• a nose tumor
• indigestion
• sinusitis
• blocked smell receptors in the brain
• depression
• acid reflux
• trauma of the head, face, or sinus variety
• drainage issues in the ears
• a tiny person in one’s nose tripping on acid and smoking like a chimney

Seriously. The most jumped-to conclusion on the message boards I found were “I have a brain tumor. I must be dying. Get me an MRI, a CT scan, and a transplant. STAT!”

All the boards were full of people going “OMG! I HAVE THIS TOO!” and no one actually offering up what his/her doctor had to say about it. Which means that either they went and the doctor said “Oh, look, a CIGARETTE lodged up your NOSE” and they felt stupid or they died and couldn’t come back to tell us all about the brain tumors since apparently there’s no internet in the afterlife.

So, I’m stuck with a nose that imagines it is smelling cigarette smoke all the time for no apparent reason. Except I’m pretty certain I don’t have a brain tumor so we can probably rule that one out.

I’d intended to come here and write about the ongoing issues I’m having with Smoke Nose, but then I went to class tonight and decided to just come here and word vom in my dashboard.

Hope you don’t mind.

Want to know why I haven’t blogged much in the past five months? Believe me. It’s not because I don’t want to.

I haven’t had time.

When my plane landed in Atlanta on the Sunday after BlogHer, I hit the ground running the very next morning with a full teaching load, learning the process of creating a yearbook, taking classes to earn my gifted certification, coaching cheerleading, and a surprise pregnancy.  On top of the wifing and momming and general attempting to be more than mediocre that I was already doing.

I’m pretty sure I’ve failed at even being mediocre lately.

I just sort of drifted through the past five months with wistful glances at the dashboard and a head full of thoughts waiting to be spilled out. And then I took my (un)happy and ridiculously tired ASSets to bed.

(We’ll just nevermind the two TVD benders I’ve been on that sucked (ha!) all my time, mmkay. You’d be hooked too. Just ask the people I’ve converted to Team Salvatore.)

Winter break was so, so good for my soul. It gave me a break from all the things I had swirling in my head. All of the work-related responsibilities got to sit firmly on the back burners of my life for two great weeks.

I went back to work on Monday and I planned out the next three months of my semester and realized that when I get to the end of these calendars, I’ll be having a baby. A tiny little bundle of lungs and poop and cute.

And then I came to my gifted class tonight and y’all, I just don’t know when I’m going to have time to get anything done at all much less do it well.

If I start to look at all the things I need to do in the next 14.5 weeks (assuming she’s on time or late), I get so unhappy I just want to get a bowl of ice cream and cry about it instead of actually taking care of business.

I’m so, so overwhelmed right now.

So, I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. Taking Joshua with me was actually quite humorous. Like when I took him to the bathroom with me so I could pee in a cup and he kept asking “Where Joshie cup!?!” So there’s that much, at least.

But this appointment was scheduled with Dr. With the NIH Fellowship. Hereafter and forever known as Dr. Blowhard.

He came in and seemed slightly annoyed that Joshua was there, like he’d never seen a small human before. Joshua, as if to give the man his toddler-middle-finger, was a dream child, sitting in the chair the whole time Dr. Blowhard and I “talked” and while we listened for New Girl’s heartbeat.

Joshua was probably more calm than I was. In fact, I know he was.

Dr. Blowhard walked in and said, “So, they did your ultrasound last time. Did you find out the sex?”

Did you fail Chart Reading 101??

Instead I said “Yes, it’s a girl.”

“Oh, congratulations! Did they look at your ovary to assess the cyst we found at the ultrasound in August? I don’t see it in your paperwork anywhere.”

So you CAN read a chart. INTERESTING.

“No, I don’t think so. Actually, no. She didn’t look for it.”

**Hold on to your horses kids. I’m about to lose it.**

“Well, when we do your c-section we’ll take a look.”

WHAT THE MOTHER LOVING LOVE!?!?!?!

” O_O. I AM NOT A C-SECTION. I AM A VBAC.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re a VBAC. Okay.”

“Yes. That’s supposed to be in my chart per Dr. iLike and my last visit.”

“What was the reason for your last c-section?”

::head explosion::

::deep breath::

“Failure. to. progress.”

“Oh, so how far along did you get?”

::more deep breath::

“7-8 centimeters and 90%. And then Dr. Impatient said my water had been broken for 24 hours and it was time to do a c-section.”

“Oh, so you didn’t get stuck at 7 for a while?”

“No. I NEVER GOT A CHANCE TO GET PAST 7-8!”

“Well, we’ll do an attempt at VBAC and I’ll put a note in your chart that we need to follow up on the cyst postpartum. How much did he ::waves hand nonchalantly in Joshua’s general direction:: weigh at birth?”

“9 pounds.”

“Oh, so he was a big baby! Did you have your blood drawn already this morning for the glucose test?”

Uh, no. Because we decided I wouldn’t do that until 28 weeks like normal people and the last doctor to see me didn’t think it needed to be done until then and I trust his judgment more than yours.

Except I just said “No. Dr. iLike didn’t mention it at my last appointment.”

“Well, you were supposed to have that done at 24 weeks and repeated 28 weeks.”

o_o

“We’ll get you the glucose drink before you leave and you can do it at 28 weeks.”

o_o

“If you fail the 1 hour, we’ll have you back in for a 2 hour.”

“Oh, so you’re not doing a 3 hour test anymore?”

“Oh, so you had that done last time? You know, mothers who fail more than one screen are at greater risk for gestational diabetes. Did you have gestational diabetes with your last pregnancy?”

CAN YOU READ A FACKING CHART?!!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!? Or is your ability to read a chart limited to only the parts you WANT to read?

Me: “No. I did not. And I passed the 3 hour test perfectly.”

“Well, failing that test is only one indicator of gestational diabetes. You still failed the 1 hour screen and then had a large baby. That’s an indicator of a problem.”

Except it’s not. The 1 hour glucose test is a screening test. The 3 hour test is the real test. Mothers routinely fail the 1 hour test and go on to pass the 3 hour test, which is the actual test. (See also: Me.) If failing the 1 hour test and passing the 3 hour test was an indicator that a mother had gestational diabetes then 1) there’d be no need for the 3 hour test or 2) there’d be no need for the 1 hour test and all mothers would go straight to the 3 hour test. But who am I to point out the fallacy in someone’s logic.

Instead I said: “His dad was a large baby, and is about 6’2″ now. Joshua was 22″ at birth. And he’s a tall almost 3 year old.”

“So some of his size may have been constitutional.”

GEE, YOU THINK?

More polite response: “Yes. I expected he’d be a large baby based on family history.”

At this point I climbed up on the table and laid back and Joshua, sweet boy, just kept sitting in the chair being awesome. Dr. Blowhard felt for my uterus, declared its positioning “perfect” and gooped me up to listen to New Girl’s heartbeat.

“Strong,” he said.

“Like her Mama,” I thought.

At this point, I was completely over being in that room with him. Completely. But I needed to ask him about the recurrent pain in my vagina bone (which I’ve neglected to write about because I’m afraid of what loonies I’ll attract with the phrase “vagina bone.”)

But, because I was there, when he asked if I had any more questions, I asked.

“Well, my only concern is some pain I’ve been having when I stand from sitting or if I’ve been in one position for too long. I sometimes feel like an old lady when I try to walk.”

I indicated the general region where I’m having the pain.

He says “Oh, that’s just your ligaments stretching so that your pelvis can accommodate the fetus.” And he went on to give me a quasi-anatomy lesson about how pregnancy works and how the body changes during pregnancy. While I just looked at Joshua and thought “This ain’t my first rodeo, pal.”

So then I asked another question, apparently because I’m stupid.

“At what point does this pain move from normal to abnormal pain that should concern me?”

“Oh, well, preterm labor is the same as regular labor except it occurs before38 weeks, but we can always try to stop the preterm labor with magnesium. If you’re having more than 4 or 5 contractions in an hour, you need to call us.”

Scccrrreeeeeech.

Yes. That conversation went from one wherein I asked a very specific question about my vagina bone pain to one where he assumes I think I’m in labor. Because every woman who has ever had a pain during pregnancy MUST THINK SHE’S IN LABOR.

o_o

And then he says “I don’t think you’re experiencing preterm labor, but I can check your cervix if you want me to, though it’d really just be exposing you to a lot of unnecessary discomfort right now.”

Uh, no thanks, pal. Really. You’re not coming anywhere near my vagina–ever–if I can help it.

“Uhh, I really don’t think that’s the issue here. I’m pretty certain that I’m not in labor. Or preterm labor. I might have a few Braxton Hicks contractions here or there, but no, I’m not in labor. I’m good.”

So then I, because I cannot help myself, ask him if there are any suggestions for managing the pain.

And then he told me I should be exercising 5 days a week for an hour at a time–brisk walking, swimming, weight lifting.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHHAAH.

o_o

(I’m not laughing about exercising during pregnancy. I should be exercising during pregnancy instead of eating bowls of ice cream and Nerds every night. I know this. But 5 hours a week? In my week? BWHAHAHAHHAHAHAH.)

At this point, he handed me my paperwork and I collected my things and Joshua and I walked down the hall toward the appointment desk. While we were walking, he called out and told me that the fact that I intend to VBAC this baby is, in fact, noted in my chart already, thanks to my conversation with Dr. iLike at the last appointment.

When I scheduled my next appointment, I made sure to tell the receptionist that I didn’t want to see Dr. Blowhard and she said “Is this something I should pass on to The Administrators.”

“Yes.”

So she made a note on a separate piece of paper. I have no idea who The Administrators may be or where that note went or who might see it.

But I will not be seeing Dr. Blowhard again.

(If you finished this, you’re not a douchebag. Unlike Dr. Blowhard. My apologies for the length.)

My Fridays are dotted with emails and iPhone notifications that New Girl is growing. And in doing that growing, we’re all growing closer to her arrival.

Fridays are my “turn days” where I advance from one week of pregnancy to the next.

Today, I’m 24 weeks pregnant.

In so many ways I feel completely unprepared for this new little baby.

And then I just tell myself that as long as my boobs work, we’re good. At least for a little while.

::sigh::

I find myself grabbing my belly, reveling in her kicks and wiggles, imagining whether she’ll look like me or Dan. I dream of the future.

And then I see Joshua. Or I hear Joshua. Or I feel Joshua because he’s crawled into my lap for the 214th time that day. I live in the present.

Sometimes I’m holding him in a Mama Snuggle and I feel her move and then I realize that in a way I’m holding them both at the same time.

I know my Mama Heart is big enough for both of them now.

Twas three days before Christmas
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a mouse.

The toddler was nestled
All snug in his crib (finally)
When Mama decided
She’d just go take a whiz.

She sat down on the toilet.
She let the pee stream.
She didn’t even care
That the bathroom didn’t gleam.

Then out in the living room
The (damn) dog started barking!
The UPS man! In the cul-de-sac!
His brown truck he was parking!

Away to the living room
She flew like a flash!
She’d jumped up so quickly
Her pants only came up to cover half her ass!

She grabbed the dog’s snout!
“NO BARKING!” she exclaimed.
“If you wake up the toddler,
I’LL GIVE YOU THE MANGE!”

And then keeping one hand
Placed firm on dog’s nose
She reached to her thighs
And her pants, up they rose!

Out on the front porch
Was the last of her gifts.
No need to visit Wal-Mart
Some time on third shift!

She sat down on the couch
To eat a Candy Cane Joe Joe.
And that’s when she heard it.
The toddler crying–Oh no.

The half-bare-assed running
She’d done moments before
Had not been fast enough
To keep the toddler a’snore.

With nap time now over,
No more free time in sight,
The only thing she had left
Was hope for a good night.

(This is based on 100% true events of my afternoon, complete with the pants-half-up running through my house to stop the (damn) dog from barking. Thank God for curtains on the windows, right?)

Here’s the deal.

I’m not hardcore pushing the potty training thing. I know my child isn’t 100% ready for diaper-free living based on various signs of readiness.

But I do need you, wise People of the Internets, to talk to me about poop and how to get it in the potty. (The toddler’s, not mine. Just in case you were confused.) Because I’m baffled as to how, exactly, this works.

We can get Joshua to pee in the potty with some regularity when we ask him if he has to go. This may be partially due to the fact that there are candy bribes involved thanks to Dr. Schneider’s lecture on potty training his daughters in my Psych 1001 class as examples of classical and operant conditioning a decade (GASP!) ago.

So then we started talking to and asking Joshua about “going stinky” in the potty. To which he says, quite pointedly, “I don wanna go stinky in dah potty.”

And then last night I think we nearly gave him an anxiety attack.

Here’s how it went down:

He came to us around 7:00 and said “I got a soaky butt!” (which he sometimes says but more often does not say). Dan took him to his room to change his diaper and instead of putting a diaper on him, I thought we’d just let him wear some Thomas underwear. There were only about 30 minutes until bath time and the chances of him peeing were slim. I didn’t want to potentially waste a diaper if we could get him to the potty to pee on time. Except he hadn’t pooped in a while and he’s a pretty, uh, regular guy. So we knew we were taking more than just a pee risk.

He was standing in front of the TV and we smelled what smelled like he’d pooped, but he hadn’t, so we took him to the potty and put him on it and told him he could have a popsicle if he went stinky on the potty.

He passed gas and proclaimed “I DID IT!”

Except he didn’t. I was sitting in the floor with him and he kept trying to get up and I kept saying “No, Joshie go stinky on the potty!” all excited-like. And he got less and less amused with my antics and began to cry. Which made me FEEL like poop. Because I was stupid for pushing this and should’ve just cut my losses.

He came back into the living room and played trains and then ventured into the dining room where he turned off the light and got quiet. Dan and I were all “JOSHUA! LET’S GO STINKY ON THE POTTY!!!”

And he got kind of hysterical. So we offered to put a diaper on him so he could poop and when we laid him down in the floor we discovered he was mid-poop and he kind of freaked on us a little bit.

“I DON WAN A DIAPER! I DON WAN A STINKY DIAPER! I DON WAN A STINKY!” ::sob sob sob::

I fastened a diaper with lightning speed, scooped up my wailing toddler, and snuggled him until he was ready to go back into the living room where we waited on bath time until he’d gone back into the dining room, turned out the light AGAIN, and finished what he’d started 15 minutes prior.

I felt awful for the kid.

And last night I realized I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to potty training except to know that he’s probably not really ready and I don’t want to push it because it’s more “convenient” for me. (And really, after reading my friend Suzanne’s post about a potty-trained toddler, I’m not so sure it’s more convenient.)

His reaction last night also tells me that I am in no way entertaining the idea of Boot Camping him into using the toilet full time.

But tell me, y’all, am I doing this even remotely right? Or should I study up on my Freud and his theories of anal retentiveness?

No, this isn’t THAT Santa situation. We’re firmly Team St. Nick over here at Casa de NSJM. But a conversation on tonight’s car ride home has proven that we (Dan and yours truly) do not see eye-to-eye on how, exactly Santa brings the presents.

Here’s a recreation of our conversation:

Me: “I really need to wrap some presents.”

Dan: “We really need to find a place to hide the wrapped presents.”

Me: o_O ::scratches head:: “Uh, we put them under the tree.”

Dan: “But Santa brings the presents.”

Me: “But they’re not all from Santa. Some of them are from us.”

Dan: “But Santa brings those, too.”

Me: o_O “No, Santa brings the big presents. And Santa doesn’t always wrap his presents. Some of them are just ready and waiting for play when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

Dan: O_o “That’s dumb. Because then you wouldn’t want to open anything else. I think you need to ask The Twitters about this.”

Yes, he really suggested asking The Twitters.

We’ve been together for 8 Christmases now and until tonight had never shared our Santa stories with each other which proves that there’s always something new to learn about those you think you know.

When I was little, presents showed up sporadically under the tree throughout the holiday season. No tags were used so we didn’t know which presents were ours. Mama just had her super secret way of knowing which gift went to whom and in all of my life, we never opened a present belonging to someone else.

(She’s magic, that one. There were no assigned wrapping papers. There were no names written in secret on the packages. She just knew. I tried this and it drove Dan insane.)

When we woke up on Christmas morning our “big” presents (a.k.a. the Santa gifts) were unwrapped and waiting for us.

The year I got my Cabbage Patch doll, she was laying in a wooden cradle. (I named her Christy Lee.)

The year I got a Nintendo (old school, with the big square cartridges) it was hooked up and the demo screen was playing when I stumbled into the living room at an ungodly hour of the morning because Daddy was a bigger kid than we were and was always waking us up at something like 4 a.m. (Not joking.)

Dan’s family, on the other hand, has a tradition of receiving gifts from everyone, including but not limited to Ayatollah Khomeini, Boba Fett, Porky Linkster, various pets, reindeer, and Condoleeza Rice. None of which show up before Christmas morning.

(This tradition of labeling gifts as being from random people is hilarious and awesome to me and is one that I’ve adopted wholeheartedly.)

When Dan and his sister were little all of these gifts showed up underneath the tree after they’d gone to bed on Christmas Eve. Santa presents were wrapped. Gifts from his mom and dad were wrapped. Everything was wrapped. And nothing showed up before Christmas Eve (except gifts from out-of-town family and friends of the family, which had to go under the tree not to be opened until Christmas morning). Otherwise, Santa brought everything. Even presents from his parents.

For the past two years, Santa’s been kind of a moot point around here. We’ve each bought Joshua three things and we’ve kept those three things a secret from the other person because otherwise, Christmas was kind of pointless since Joshua was way more interested in the boxes than anything that was inside them. But this year is a little different. He sort of gets it. Or at least he gets the opening presents part of it. Sort of.

But this Santa background thing? Is proving quite difficult.

I like my way because 1) it’s what I know, 2) it takes a lot of the focus off of Santa and keeps it real that he’s not the only gift-giver in town, 3) it’s what I know.

Dan likes his way because 1) it’s what he knows, 2) it’s a surprise, 3) it’s what he knows. (Oh, and he thinks my way is weird.)

How do we blend these two traditions to make something new?

So, last Friday, after a 15 hour day at work (thank you, basketball season and games that go into overtime following games that ran long), I hobbled into the house completely exhausted.

I pretty much headed straight for the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face and all that jazz. While I was standing at the sink, trying to decide whether flossing that night was worth the effort, I noticed my legs felt…tight.

Puffy.

I braced myself.

Took a deep breath.

And looked down.

THE CANKLES WERE BACK.

If you don’t know what a cankle is, first, you’ve been living under a rock. Second, it’s when your ankles swell so as to be indistinguishable from your calves.

And I haz them. See Exhibit A:

Please to excuse the ashy legs.

Yes, people. Yes that is the line from the socks that had only been on my feet for a whopping two hours this evening.

Two hours!?! And sock lines!?!

When I went for my 20 week ultrasound with Joshua, my right leg was twice the size of my left. It was so big, in fact, that it alarmed the doctor and she sent me for a special ultrasound on my leg to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot.

(I didn’t.)

I did, however, have some of the most ridiculously swollen legs, ankles, and feet known to mankind, and long before I delivered, the left leg had joined the right in swelling. As had my hands, face, and nasal passages. (Sounds lovely, right?)

Up until last Friday, I’d had ZERO swelling with New Girl’s pregnancy. None. Nada. Zilch. My ankles were perfectly formed and not at all sausage-y. I was all ::happy dancing:: that maybe the swelling wouldn’t occur this time because of all the Digestive Exit issues and nausea I had in the first trimester. You know, kind of The Universe’s way of saying “Miranda, you’ve been so good this trimester we’ll put you on the non-swollen pregnant lady list.”

Since last Friday? There has been ZERO REDUCTION in swelling, y’all. None.

Sad Miranda is sad.

If this means I have to try support pantyhose again the ugly cry might happen.

::sigh::

The internet? Does not suck more often than it sucks.

(Example: I’ve typed this post twice [suck] but this post gives you an opportunity to do something good for someone else with the internet [double not suck].)

Another example of the internet not sucking? It brought me my friends Jessica and Heather.

Jessica and Heather are the kind of girlfriends you want to be around because they are as inspiring and encouraging as they are beautiful. And while I’ve never gotten the opportunity to hug the faces of either of these women, they’ve been important parts of my life for several years now. So when Jessica emailed me last week to ask for help with a mission, it took me about .02 seconds to say “YES!”

(Okay…it took me overnight because of how busy last week was. Kind of beside the point.)

Heather is an active member of the Air Force Reserves. While Jessica and I were about to give birth to toddlers, Heather was sent on her first overseas deployment.

Jessica, in addition to being the mom to a nearly THREE year old (!!!) and rocking her day job, sells thirty-one gifts as a way to supplement her income.

Jessica’s thirty-one venture + Heather = Operation Zipper Pouch

Operation Zipper Pouch is a way to say “Thank You” to some of our troops currently serving overseas deployments.

Between now and December 21st, you can purchase a zipper pouch from thirty-one gifts in any print and personalize  the bag (or not) in any color and font you choose. I think you can even choose your own wording!

100% of the commission earned from the sale of these pouches will go toward buying items that will be used to make care packages for the recipients–chap stick, ink pens, notepads, small snacks, puzzle books–you name it. If it will fit and is on the list of items approved for shipment, that’s what Jessica will buy to put in these pouches. (And feel free to leave a comment with a suggested item if you have firsthand knowledge of what items would be of use to someone deployed, man or woman!)

When I asked Jessica what motivated her to do this, she replied, “I want our troops to feel appreciated even if it is just a small token.  They are putting their lives on the line, away from their families, and if this gift gives them a smile then it is totally worth the effort for me.”

A personalized zipper pouch is $22.16 (tax and shipping included) and a non-personalized zipper pouch is just $14.

You can shop Operation Zipper Pouch right now to purchase your gift. The pouches are expected to be delivered to their intended recipients in January, so not in time for Christmas, but the gift of thanks and gratitude is always on time.

The deployed members of Heather’s unit, the 45th Aerial Port Squadron which is part of the 349th Air Mobility Wing out of Travis AFB, CA, will be the recipients of these pouches. I’ll be giving you updates along the way of the progress of Operation Zipper Pouch as well as sharing with you any news we have once these gifts arrive at their final destination.

As if doing something nice for someone else isn’t incentive enough, Jessica is also giving away THREE prizes to THREE winners from those who purchase a pouch between now and December 21st via Operation Zipper Pouch.

One person will win an Organizing Utility Tote in Paparazzi Dot, one person will win a Cinch-top Thermal Tote (a brand new item to thirty-one!), and one person will win a $20 gift certificate to thirty-one gifts.

Winning!

Jessica will choose the winners at the conclusion of Operation Zipper Pouch. I’ll announce them here, but she’ll contact the winners as well.

Again, 100% of the commission from the sale of these bags is going to the troops deployed overseas. Jessica is doing this NOT as part of an initiative of thirty-one gifts but because she wants to do something good for others and let you in on the doing good.

We hope you’ll join us in spreading a little cheer to these deserving men and women!

Let Operation Zipper Pouch BEGIN!

This has been a week, y’all. A long, busy, tiring week.

Three nights of basketball, one night of gifted class, and one night spent frustrated because Joshua decided to “decorate” the couch cushions with an ink pen while I was making Christmas presents.

Add in a healthy dose of anxiety over his picky eating and whether or not I’m a complete screw-up [yes, again] and his being switched to another class at daycare and you’ve got a recipe for Meatloaf Meltdown. Which is exactly what I had today. Minus the meatloaf.

This morning I needed rest. But Joshua woke up at 6:00, ready to start the day. And Dan had to go to work.

When it was clear that Joshua was not interested in having a calm morning and insisted upon turning the Christmas tree lights on and off, throwing his crayons all over the living room, and slinging his animal alphabet flashcards from one end of the rug to the other, and when it became clear that my only choice would be to take him with me to the craft store, we loaded up and left the house.

What a mistake.

A mistake I’ve made before.

He refused to ride in the cart at the store. But he also refused to walk.

He wanted to be carried. Because lately he always wants to be carried. By me, of course. The woman who is currently carrying another human and whose vagina bone feels like it’s being ripped into two pieces on a near constant basis. The woman who cannot really handle carrying an additional 35 points of wiggling toddler simply because he doesn’t want to walk or ride.

Yes. Me. Only me.

I tried to resist. But when you have to get things done so you can leave, how do you have that fight? How do you have a battle of wills with a 2 year old in the middle of Hobby Lobby over holding hands and walking or riding in the cart?

At one point I plopped him in the seat of the cart and let him protest. I bribed him with “games” on the phone and that worked for about 5 minutes. I grew increasingly frustrated and angry with his protests. My voice got erratic. My skin started crawling. It was a million zillion degrees in that store in the middle of December.

By the time we got to the register, he’d managed to climb out of the seat which meant I had to grab him before he kamikaze’d to the floor. And at the register, I couldn’t exactly put him down because of all the things he could get into right there.

So I held him.

And he asked for this and that and “I need get down.”

And then I felt it. I felt the warmth and the wetness on my hip. The telling feeling of having just been peed on. A feeling I think most moms know all too well.

The diaper that had been fresh when we walked out the door an hour earlier had been completely soaked through thanks to the water he had in the car.

I huffed and the cashier apologized for the wait. So in my absolute classiest voice I said “Oh, no big deal. I just got peed on.”

Finally, it was my turn. I had to unload my cart one handed while I held Joshua on my left hip. No one even bothered to help. Which kind of made me want to cry. I feel like it was clear I was struggling at that point. And there I was, taking care of things on my own.

I paid and took Joshua to the car and changed his diaper in the back. I wasn’t nice about it, which makes me feel like shit on a stick. It wasn’t his fault the diaper leaked.

As I picked him up and didn’t put his pants back on he started protesting. I put him in the car seat and he started wailing. I wasn’t nice about that either.

Almost the entire drive home alternated between him screaming and crying because he wasn’t wearing pants and shoes to me screaming at him to stop crying which led to me crying so hard at one point my sunglasses fogged up.

And then I just felt terrible and started apologizing to him for having me as his mother.

I don’t want him to grow up afraid of me and my irrationality. He deserves so much better than a mother who can’t keep it together. So much better.

I need a clear head and a clear heart.

It’s been my experience over the past 2.5 years that cute, non-puppy, non-cartoon character-laden, non-UGLY inexpensive boy clothes can be kind of hard to come by, so shopping’s difficult.

I’ve spent hours scouring the few stores that carry semi-decent, in-my-price-range boy clothes endlessly for Joshua’s outfits (at least the non-play clothes ones). Even if that means I’m scouring the same 3 racks of clothes.

In light of this, I have a confession to make that is absolutely INSANE.

Being a girl mom is hard. And New Girl isn’t even here yet.

Because shopping for girls is equally as hard as shopping for boys but for totally different reasons.

You see, I heard “It’s a girl!” at the ultrasound and visions of ruffles! and dresses! and tights! danced in my head. I thought “SHOPPING!!!” Most likely because I’m a girl.

And then I got home and started paying attention to my Zulily emails and Old Navy’s girl’s section online and putting stuff into and out of my online shopping carts. (And that’s pretty much the only two places I’ve “been” because, hello, Hell Week).

Want to know what I discovered?

THERE ARE TOO MANY CHOICES.

If there are 3 racks of little boy clothes, there are 30 racks for little girls. Do you know how hard it is to decide between the pink romper and the pink romper with little white flowers and the pink romper with little white and yellow flowers and the pink romper with the little white and yellow and blue flowers?

BECAUSE IT’S HARD.

And it’s hard to even choose between two solid pieces, too. Because how many solid purple onesies does a girl need? (Multiple, if you ask me. I mean, let’s not talk about the fact that I buy long-sleeved black t-shirts nearly every time I see them on sale, mmkay?)

And then I think “If I put her in too many dresses, will she rebel one day and become a female body builder? Or will she develop some sort of princess complex?” Like, can I screw my child up by what I put on her? (Judging by Toddlers and Tiaras, maybe.) I mean, I certainly don’t want to ruin her by dressing her in a way that typecasts her for the rest of her life.

Then there’s the practical side of me that thinks about the cute things I bought for Joshua that he never wore because we never go anywhere. (I’m looking at you linen pants and embroidered linen shirt screaming Panama-Jack-meet-ADORABLE BABY BOY and still hanging in his closet.)

All of these layered, jean-skirt and leggings outfits make my ovaries all twitchy but they scream “PAIN IN THE ASSETS!”

Because there will be poopsplosions, y’all. Probably more than one.  I know enough to know that much.

And spit-up. And knowing my track record, a lot of spit-up.

I’m neurotic. (That’s not new information, people. Move along.)

How do I dress girl babies?

Joshua’s kind of in love with Angry Birds.

“I play Angry Birds Daddy’s phone!?”

“I needa play Angry Birds on da cahPEWder!?”

“I play Angry Birds Joshie’s phone!?”

(Yes, he has a phone. No, he’s not ordering pizza or scheduling playdates. Yet.)

These are constant comments at our house. Constant. And I’m pretty sure Dan played Angry Birds on the computer for nearly an hour on Sunday morning because that’s how much the toddler loves the game (and how much Dan loves Joshua and me and values my sanity).

Last night we went to the grocery store and lo and behold the Christmas toy display!

Which, not coincidentally, is right as you walk in the door no doubt to  con harried parents into buying whatever will hold Little Johnny still long enough for them to grocery shop. 

o_O

Right atop said display? Plush Angry Birds characters as big as my toddler.

“ANGRY! BIRDS!,” he shouted.

So, being the good parents we are, we walked over to the display and talked about the birds.

And then the following scene took place:

“I needa RED Angry Bird!”

We handed Joshua the red Angry Bird plush toy.

“Daddy needa yewwow Angry Bird!”

Dan picked up the yellow Angry Bird plush toy.

“Mama needa pig!”

o_O

I picked up the green Pig plush toy.

“OINK!”

And then a red Angry Bird was launched at me from across the grocery store aisle by my toddler kamikaze style.

End Scene.

I love that kid.

We used to say that we were “tanking” Joshua up when we’d feed him right before putting him to bed at night. He’d nurse or have a bottle (while I milked myself o_o ) and then we’d put him to bed and hope he slept through the night.

(He didn’t.)

Lately, he needs a different kind of “tanking up.”

His Mama-Love Tank seems to be running on empty. All the time. And apparently, Joshua drives an 18-wheeler because his Mama-Love Tank is enormous.

Nearly every morning since September, he’s been protesting and crying  at daycare drop-off in the mornings. Some mornings, I cry, too. I know that he’s loved and cared for at his daycare, and I know that he stops thinking about me by the time I reach my car.

But it breaks my heart to leave him crying every day when I know that he wants me. It’s also hard to go through my day and do my job when the last and most poignant sound in my ears is that of my child crying as I walk out the door.

This kind of thing breeds a lot of resentment. A lot.

When I pick him up, he practically shoots sunshine and rainbows out of his face and he screams “MA! MA!” and runs to me and I scoop him up and smother him in kisses and hugs.

**Sidenote: please see Life is Beautiful immediately if you haven’t already seen it. Like, see it yesterday. Pack tissues.**

When we get home Joshua is All-Mama-All-the-Time.

If I sit down for a minute, I have about 2 seconds until I hear “I needa sit Mama’s wap!” and his boney little toddler butt is glued to my leg. Glued.

And then there’s “I need you hold you me!” (formerly known as “Mama up!”) with his toddler arms stretched up toward my face asking to be picked up just to, presumably, be close to me.

The latest “trick” to get me to hold him is “I need you snuggle Mama.”

HOW DOES ONE RESIST THE CUTE OF THAT?

The “problem” (I hate even calling it that) comes from the fact that we, Joshua and me, we speak different Love Languages. (You’ve heard of The 5 Love Languages, right? I mean, I haven’t read it, but I’ve read a lot about it. And there’s even one for children.)

Joshua?

He’s Physical Touch. 10000000000000%.

I?

Well, I’m not.

Joshua came out of the womb speaking this language. By the second or third night in the hospital he was asleep on my chest instead of in his bassinet because it was the only way he would even dare to sleep at all. And he’s spent many a night (And afternoon. And morning. And evening. And…) asleep on my chest since then.

So the “problem” is that I cannot possibly have someone touching me that frequently and not feel like my skin is going to crawl right off my body. I am a creature who craves personal space.

Saturday morning, he woke up at 6:15. From the time he woke up until the time Dan picked him up at the basketball game, he was on me or asking to be on me–sitting in my lap, asking to be carried, holding onto my leg–except for when he was napping. (A nap which almost didn’t happen.)

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday and at one point, I got up and went into another room so I could sit on more than 10 square inches of the couch. (In case you were wondering, my assets? Bigger than 10 square inches. Our couch? Also bigger than 10 square inches.)

When he wouldn’t take a nap on Sunday, I physically had to leave the house to prevent his sitting on top of me or asking to be picked up because my earlier strategy of leaving the room didn’t work.

I guess the real problem is that I’m away from him so much because of work that most of the time, I don’t mind his wanting to be that close to me. I recognize it for what it is–his desire to reconnect with me after being separated all day. And I want to reconnect with him, too.

But that line between “enough” and “too much” is very blurry.

Very.

And I just feel like a jerk.

Thank you for the excitement yesterday! To say that I’m over the moon is maybe an understatement. I mean, RUFFLES, people!

But that’s not really what I’m here to talk about right this second.

No, what I need to talk about is my nose.

Yes. My nose.

I spent the entire first trimester (or most of it) unable to breathe through my nose. I took cold medicine. I used nose spray. I used saline. I took hot showers and relied on the steam to open my passages. I used Vicks Vapo-rub (up my nose!) to be able to breathe. And then I guess I “grew out of it.” Or something.

So now I can breathe.

Hooray, right?

Sort of.

Here’s the thing about my new(ish)found sense of smell.

Ready?

Everything smells the same.

And that “same” is the smell of smoke.

Cigarette smoke to be exact.

Everything.

No one who lives in this house smokes unless the dog has sprouted opposable thumbs and is lighting up while we’re at work. I thought that perhaps the wind was blowing the cigarette smoke from the neighbor’s house (half a football field away) and it was somehow getting sucked into my house’s exhaust system and I was smelling it because I have Super Snout right now.

But then I smelled it at the doctor’s office yesterday. And all day at school today.

Smoke. Up my nose.

There is no reason the smell of cigarette smoke should be perma-bound to my nose hairs. And yet it is. And it is disgusting and freaking me out. And annoying.

I’ve showered. It’s still there.

I’ve lit candles. It’s still there.

Occasionally, I get a temporary reprieve from the ashtray up my nose and I smell the languishing flowers from Thanksgiving. But that lasts about 10 seconds and the smoke smell overwhelms me yet again.

I’m afraid to Google this because Google will tell me I’m dying. Or giving birth to an elephant. Or a dog. Or one of those truffle pigs.

But this is maddening. And I forgot to ask the real doctor yesterday because GIRLPARTS! and RUFFLES!

So, former pregnant people, current pregnant people, or people who just know more than me in general, what is this?

WHY is this?

SAVE MY NOSE. Please.

The New GIRL!!

Coming to a family near you, April 2012!!

I have ruffles to buy, people! I’m off to shop!