sKIDmarks

The shank

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:37:00 +0000

In the past, when I thought about someone having postpartum emotional issues I always imagined some scraggly haired, bag eyed woman moping around her house in her bathrobe with a pacifier in one hand and a revolver in the other.

What I have learned after Hadley was born is that post partum emotional issues can come knocking on your door in all shapes and sizes. Most of us are familiar with postpartum depression (PPD) - some all too familiar. But over the past 12 weeks I have been dealing with another form, called PIWTSASIYUF. Postpartum I Want To Stick A Shank In Your Ugly Face.

Sure, after Ellie and Lila were born I had a little moodiness as my hormones settled back to their resting states. But the past three months I have been a woman on fire. No fuse. No warning. No taking deep breaths while I count down from ten. A race car in the red. Certified TNT.

Me: Excuse me sir, your circular said that Special K was on sale this week.

Stock Boy: Oh, sorry no - that ended yesterd-

Me: *round house to the throat*

One minute I'm fine - playing with the kids, thinking about life and how blessed we are, feeling like the queen of the world. But then it's almost as if I can feel the fine slipping away and the next thing I know I'm switching the Time Out spot to our guest bathroom with the hope that a door will protect the lives of the disobedient.

And it is really an unfortunate time in history to have PIWTSASIYUF. 30 years ago, women who had it would simply think hateful thoughts about friends and family and by the time the hate passed no harm was done.

But now... now you can spread your crazy around for all the world to see with just the click of a button. Which seems like a really awesome idea at the time but then, just about the time your in-laws open their email, you're checking one way flights to Rio and gluing on a fake moustache.

Or you're, oh I don't know... say, calling your sister a religious hypocrite and comparing her and her friends to the anti-Christ on her Facebook page. For instance.

I didn't know what was wrong with me - so many questions ran through my head. Is it the hormones? The stress of having three little kids? Am I just a bitch? Where can I buy a switch blade?

On Friday Nick and I had a belated Valentine's Day date night.

Me: I've got a lot of hate in my heart.

Nick: Yeah I noticed.

Me: One minute I'm fine, then the next I'm cyber bullying my Grandma. I'm scared I'm going to do something I might regret.

Nick: Like accidentally send an email to one of your old co-workers or something?

Me: Like kill you in your sleep.

Luckily I had a doctor appointment this week to double check that this Mirena is in nice and good and nothing is going to slip past the goalie, because I can't even begin to imagine what pregnancy hormones on top of postpartum rage would do.  So I decided it would be wise to talk to J.T. my trusty OB about my PIWTSASIYUF.

I sat in the waiting room rehearsing what I was going to say. I didn't want to say anything that might get me locked up or make me seem uncool.

Receptionist: Mrs. Mayer? Can you come to the counter please?

Me: Sure.

Receptionist: They wanted me to bring this to your attention - you have a balance due of 703 dollars.

Me: But when your billing person called my insurance company before I had this thing put in they told me it would only be a co-pay of 20 dollars.

Receptionist: Hmm, well all I know is what they tell me.

Me: Can you please double check? I mean, I never would have had this done if I knew it was going to be 703 dollars. You're out of your mind if you think I'm paying that. I will take it out right here and give it back to you.

Receptionist:  Ummm, well... the service has already been performed. Let me call the billing manager.

As the nurse led me to the exam room I plotted my escape if they were going to make me pay the 703 dollars. I hadn't worked out all of the details but I had a sketchy plan involving me running through the waiting room pantsless screaming "they'll never take me alive." As I sat on the table, pantsless and ready to bolt, there was a knock at the door.

Billing Manager: Well yes, this is indeed what you owe.

Me: Your office told me it was only going to be 20 dollars.

BM: If I were you I'd call your insurance company.

Me: You need to leave now please. I'm getting angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

BM: I brought you an extra copy of the bill in case you need it.

Me: I swear to god I'm about three seconds away from shanking your face.

The good news is that I didn't need to worry about remembering a single word of my "I think need some medication to control my anger" speech at all. Someone just slid a prescription for some happy pills under the door with a stick.

The bad news is that it takes 2 - 4 weeks to kick in. I would advise steering clear of any and all mini vans you see on the road in the metro area for at least that length of time.

Week 7 Weight Watchers weigh in

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:40:00 +0000

And that, brothers and sisters, is 11.8 pounds.

Cracka lacka.

Pinterest in real life - butterflies

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 14:30:00 +0000

I decided to post this one today in case anyone is looking for a cute Valentine's Day snack idea. It's our week to bring the snack at Ellie's pre-school, so I scoured Pinterest and decided to mix this:

http://www.kraftrecipes.com/

With this:

http://www.theworldwidegourmet.com/

And get this:

12 times:

Ellie lent her talents to finger paint the clothes pins, and those killer antennae hot glued to the top are courtesy of yours truly.

Because that's how most of her craft projects end up - me hovering over the kitchen counter at 10pm cursing myself for not just buying pretzels like a sane person.

R.I.P. 'Lil Shawty

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 19:41:00 +0000

'Lil Shawty

10.8.11 - 2.6.12

Young life taken too soon
Like Janice, Marilyn and the nerd from Harry Potter
A fragile candle in the wind
Your flame extinguished by toilet water

I should have left you outside that stall
The communication far from dire
I just wanted to pass time on the pot
Texting my friend Andi about a pacifier

First a pep talk, then a deep breath
I stuck my hand in fast
My thoughts immediately haunted
By the ghosts of poo past

For 2 days I held silent vigil
Tears falling on your shroud of rice
First long grain, then white
Based on the tech's advice

So many memories for our short time
And you took them all
Pictures from Christmas, the video of Hadley's birth
Oh my god I hate you so much you fucking piece of worthless shit just please turn on for two seconds I feel sick to my stomach

I find peace imagining you
In the arms of Jesus
At $49.99 you were such a deal
Thanks to inhumane wages of the Chineeses

I have to move on
Lest I become institutional
But I'll never forget the laughs we shared
During my daily constitutional

*In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the A New Blackberry Costs WHAT? Why Don't You Just Bend Me Over This Counter It Would Be Less Painful fund.

Winterest

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 21:35:00 +0000

I have a big confession to make. I've decided to leave Nick for my new secret lover, Pinterest. My old secret lover was Chicken McNuggets, but now that I'm on this god forsaken diet I had to break up with them.

I'm going to introduce Pinterest to my kids later this week, and explain that it's just like the old daddy but this one gives mommy awesome ideas for outfits, food and home decor.

Many of you are already on Pinterest and many are not. And that's okay if you're not.

Just kidding. If you're not on Pinterest you're what we in the biz call a "loser". You're a huge pain in marketers asses because you won't jump on the new idea bandwagon. What's wrong with you? Don't you want to know how to make the honey sesame chicken cooking in my crock pot right this moment or make multi-colored bath bubbles?

But just in case my compelling argument of calling you a loser hasn't encouraged you to get on Pinterest, don't worry. Because once a week I'm going to bring Pinterest to you, my loser friend. I've been pinning up a storm around here and making lots of awesome things.

And some not-so-awesome things.

Every so often I'll share one of my successes or failures. And, you can even email me and share your favorite pins and I just might feature you on my blog. Originally I was going to do it every Wednesday and call it Winterest, but my life is so crazy right now that I can't even commit to taking a poop, much less a weekly segment.

You can also follow me and my boards, if you want.

So here's your first one. A beautiful photograph of three girls that I thought would be awesome to try with my girls and maybe blow up and hang in the living room.

And here's the Mayer version:

And right about here is when I remembered that taking a picture of all three girls is a pipe dream.

If only I knew how to use Photoshop.

The magic bullet

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:32:00 +0000

Nick has been working like a dog lately which is super inconvenient for me because I have to take on some of his household chores. In addition to his weekly duties of ignoring the overflowing diaper pail and drinking all but the last swallow of the Crystal Lite, I've been in charge of bath night.

Three little kids - one me.

It's been a while since I've given them a bath by myself and on Saturday night, as I began to wash Lila's hair, I made a shocking discovery.

There was a raccoon attached to the back of her head.

When dry, her baby mullet (bullet) looks slightly scraggly and teeters on trailer park but is generally non-threatening.

But the minute I got it wet it took on a new life. Like an evil alter ego. That thing stretched halfway down her back and I swear I heard it whisper something about stealing my wallet.

It was time to go.

Without the fanfare of Ellie's first haircut at an overpriced posh kids' salon (where we made an appointment two weeks in advance) that presents all of its customers with a "first haircut" certificate and a live pony, I ran Lila into a bargain salon and just asked for the first person off their smoke break.

The Chops A Lot 3000 it was.

I mean, I don't know a lot about haircuts but I think this is bad.

Like, REALLY bad.

Every time I look at her all I can think of is my least favorite stooge.

That then morphs into her face.

In 30 years she's going to ask me why there are no pictures of her when she was little. And I'll tell her the truth. It's because she was terrifying.

The screaming mimi

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 15:56:00 +0000

Having three kids under 2 1/2 affords me certain provisions. Unfortunately, as I learned over the weekend when I did a little online research, those provisions don't include parking in handicapped spots. Apparently I need some sort of "disability."

Fortunately I don't let little technicalities get in the way of my dreams. I mean, it's not like I'm going to take the last handicapped spot in a parking lot or anything. I'm not a jerk. I just think back to my grad school stats class and use everything I learned about the laws of probability. Like - there are fifteen open handicapped spots outside the Wal-Mart... there are probably not fifteen handicapped people who are going to show up in the next 45 minutes.

And my grad school continues to pay for itself one day at a time.

Another provision is that I get a helper. Every Sunday night my niece (my sister's husband's brother's daughter... my niece) hops a train to baby town and for three days when we're not frolicking through fields of daisies hand in hand with the girls I'm able to do things like go to doctor's appointments, the grocery store, the gym, take whirlwind tours of every pre-school within a 5-mile radius and even sneak in the occasional shower. Also she makes sure everyone gets fed.

These three days are what I like to call The Good Days.

Then Wednesday night comes and she leaves.

And the next two days are what I like to call The Bad Days.

For 48 hours we wear the same pajamas and look out the window, trying to remember what it's like to breathe fresh air. That's in between The Bad Meal Times, when I'm trying to cook, then cut, a hot dog while breast feeding a baby (true story).  I've actually gotten pretty proficient with getting Lila into and out of her high chair one handed.  This is because I've learned the hard way that a baby will all but take your nipple with her if she's accidentally bumped off.

But last Friday, in the words of Popeye, "I've taken all I can stands and I can't stands no more!" I was getting out. Ellie needed some new snow boots and we were all going to leave the house. Everyone. Together.

Dammit.

First, let me begin by outlining the logistics behind getting everyone in the car:

1. Ellie goes in first and crawls all the way to the back. I crawl in behind her in and buckle her in.
2. I go back inside the house and get Lila, squeeze in between trash cans and van and buckle her in.
3. I go back inside and get Hadley, who by the way detests being in the car seat. Probably because I take her out as little as possible and 97% of her car seat experiences have ended with a vaccine of some sort.
4. Meanwhile, Lila poops. Take her inside to change her as other children scream in terror because they believe I'm leaving them alone in the van forever
5. Put Lila back in
6. Take wagon out of back of mini van and put double stroller in
7. Adjust hernia and get in the driver's seat
8. Hadley poops
9. In keeping with the curse of the third child, ignore Hadley's dirty diaper and put car in reverse

I backed out of the driveway to find what I thought was rain was actually freezing rain. Again, a technicality that I was not going to let get in the way of my dreams.

We were getting the finest snow boots Old Navy had to offer.

Dammit.

Hadley's screams had now manifested into a shard of glass stabbing at my ovaries which really makes for a pleasant driving experience. I was actually sort of wishing someone would cut me off so I would have a reason to leap out of my car, throw their door open and stab them repeatedly in the face with a screwdriver.

That didn't happen, which now that I'm calmer realize was probably a good thing.

We finally arrived at Old Navy and the freezing rain was now driving freezing rain and pelting me in the face as I punched the shit out of the double stroller because it was caught on something in the back of the van. I finally wriggled it free, got Lila out of the van, then got Screams Her Balls Off out of the van, then crawled to the back and got Ellie out.

By now everyone was soaking wet.

Nothing makes you feel like a more awesome Mom than walking around a store with three dripping wet kids and a baby who sounds like you're sticking a lit cigarette in her eye. The store is every mom's public showcase, and Hadley was totally blowing my scores with the invisible baby judges. So I decided to do the mature thing - ignore it and browse.

What baby? Nope, I don't hear anything except the sounds of the best Mom ever just leisurely pushing her kids around the store looking for some snow boots. What noise? Oh, that's just our pet hyena. Sometimes we like to get her out of the house and give her some fresh air.

Say, no reason for asking, but do you know anything about human trafficking? Like, what if someone wanted to get into it? No? Okay, can you just point me in the direction of your snow boots then?

Of course Old Navy doesn't carry snow boots.

The next stop on our first and last errand run ever was the drive through liquor store.

The iron maiden

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 19:02:00 +0000

Just to refresh your memory... week 1:

Week 3:

I don't know why I held my arm out like that - maybe I was subconsciously trying to hide the huge piles of laundry on my bed. But now it's too late because all the kids are up and I don't have time to take another picture.

Aside from my weird arm I know the pictures don't really look any different and I still look pregnant with a food baby. But an article I read said that when you're losing weight it takes four weeks for you to notice a difference, eight weeks for your spouse to notice a difference (or, according to my Mother-In-Law, twelve years and only when you bring it up in front of a bunch of people at dinner) and twelve weeks for friends and family to notice. And since most of you don't fall into any of those categories I'm pretty sure if we met up somewhere you'd think I looked just the same as I did last month.

Anyhoo, today I got one of these:

Which was pretty cool.

When it comes to losing weight, my experience with Weight Watchers hasn't been all that bad.

But that's like saying, "If I'm going to be slowly tortured to death, for my money it's hands down the iron maiden."

Working out and eating healthy is awful. It's horrible. All things being equal, no one would choose healthy over gluttony and sloth. I don't trust people who say they like to exercise. Because I do not trust liars.

I'm so hungry every second of every minute I'm awake. I even dream about eating. And it's not like I'm starving myself - I've just downsized my feedings to what most normal people eat. I started measuring my portions in ounces and tablespoons instead of casserole dishes and troughs.

All I can think about all day long is dry humping a pile of tater tots, probably because I swear to god every single commercial that comes on television now is for food. Stupid ass clowns eating lots and lots of food I can't have.

Actually that's not true. With Weight Watchers I can pretty much eat whatever I want, but most of the things I want have the point value of an entire day's worth of food. So if I want a Taco Bell XXL Grilled Stuft Burrito I can go hog wild, but that just has to be the only thing I eat all day.

Which brings me to Saturday.

Throw that 2-pound log of Mexican pleasure together with a Diet Ginger Ale and Betty White's 90th birthday celebration and that was my rockin' Saturday night.

But as I was basking in the after glow I had a big scare. I think my new healthy eating habits are starting to mess up my body because I swear it immediately tried to tunnel its way out of my stomach via my butt. And I won't even tell you what it did to Hadley after I breast fed her that night, but let's just say I've never seen someone take a crap with their legs above their head before.

My stomach has always been extremely hospitable to a bunch of junk randomly thrown together and fried and if I keep on this health kick it's going to totally ruin my plan to resume my love affair with White Castle once I hit my goal weight.

This could be trouble.

I'm not ready to say goodbye.

The deadly sin

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:48:00 +0000

My second thought when I found out I was pregnant with Hadley was, "well at least I don't have to try to lose weight any more."

Oh, and in case you're wondering, my first thought was, "No no no, sweet Jesus please no, why are there two lines on this pregnancy test, what the hell am I going to do, I have a 6-month-old and a 1-year-old, I've totally screwed myself, damn it to Hell - that stupid husband of mine this is all his fault I TOLD him this was going to happen, wait maybe this is a special unique brand of European pregnancy test where two lines actually means not pregnant, oh please lord let that be the case, no no it's not the case at all, oh crap my life is ruined, I wonder if I could pretend like I don't know this information and still have some beer tonight."

So now that she's 7 weeks old, and I got the all-clear to resume life as normal yesterday from J.T. my trusty O.B., I begrudgingly realize it's time to face the music.

The music being the sound of my stomach rumbling all day as I can't stop thinking about my secret lover, chicken McNuggets.

The music being my lungs wheezing after I coughed up something I ate last week while running on the treadmill.

The music being my jeans screaming in terror as I trade them out for the sweats I've worn for the past 11 months. The sweats I can't function without for the two hours it takes to wash and dry a load of laundry. The sweats I tried to wear to our church Christmas Eve service but Nick made me change and the only pants I had that even came close to buttoning were so tight I started to hallucinate from lack of blood to my brain and peed my pants a little every time I sat down or bent over.

I knew this time I was going to need some help and all I could think about was the Sex and the City episode where the book store worker tells Miranda "Will the New York Times come to your house at two in the morning and pry the cookie dough out of your hands?"

Yes, yes - I need whatever that is that does that.

So I took a deep breath, and feeling like a kid on her first day at a new school, walked in. Except instead of the kid I was the fat kid (big diff), and instead of school it was a strip mall where I had to stand on a scale in front of a total stranger and have her weigh me.

And you're dying to know what that number was, aren't you? Well, my friends, I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid because I know it's only going down from here. So here you go:

And just to prove that I'm REALLY not afraid I'll share another picture with you of what my sister lovingly refers to as my Dunlop Belly.

You know, my belly so big it done lopped over my drawers.

But, in my defense, here was the 'before' 8 short weeks ago:

I have a weigh in every Tuesday morning and I will gladly share the results with you each week (I'm a week behind on my blogging so -spoiler alert- I'll bring you up to today and tell you that I lost 3.8 pounds already this week - booyah).

Also I decided to run in the St. Patrick's Day 5 mile race. Have I ever run 5 miles? No. Have I ever run 4 miles? Not exactly. The truth is I've only actually run one race, a 5K, and it was ugly. I mean, REALLY ugly.

People were hitting cow bells and banging drums and yelling the same encouraging things you would yell at a child trying to cut meat for the first time at me as my brain desperately tried to tell my pissed off legs to move and cross the finish line. Mind you this was all after I tried to abandon ship and crawl across a median to get to my car because I thought I was going to barf if I had to run the last 200 yards.

So why am I doing this again? Because I'm a glutton for punishment.

But that's the only glutton I'm allowing myself to be from here on out.

Date night

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 18:42:00 +0000

My Mom came in town to help out last week and, in what I suspect may be the first of many efforts to convince me not to stick her in a nursing home somewhere down the line, even offered to stay over an extra night so that Nick and I could have a date night.

I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember the last time Nick and I had a night to ourselves that didn't involve a Family Guy marathon.

We decided to go to one of our favorite restaurants, The Stable. You may remember this post about the glorious shrimp and cheese dip that I accidentally left in my trunk overnight but ate anyway from The Stable.

One of the more interesting menu items is something simply called the "plate of food". At $10, the plate of food is whatever the chef feels like preparing for you - no refunds. We've never been adventurous enough to order it for ourselves but we've seen it arrive on other tables in the form of anything from lasagna to pot roast.

In the spirit of date night Nick decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it, hoping the chef would cook up something real special for our romantic evening.

I'm pretty sure the chef was either a jaded ex-boyfriend or a 9-year-old boy.

With only the words, "are you sure?", we silently switched plates and I handed him my salmon.

You may notice that in the time it took me to get my phone out of my purse and snap a quick pic the better part of one chili dog was annihilated. This is because I've developed a really bad habit of eating like someone is about to steal my food, as my Mom pointed out when I burped and licked the last of the bread crumbs off my fingers as she was just taking the first bite of her sandwich as we ate lunch one day.

It's not my fault - most of the time when I eat someone IS about to steal my food. Two little thiefs that like to sit on my lap and eat off my plate so I have to be quick as lightning if I actually want anything for myself.

The silver lining surrounding the chili dogs is that I've been really stressed out about making a birth control decision before my 6-week post partum check up with J.T. next week, and I think the answer was served right up to me on a platter.

After dinner we decided to grab a drink at a bar we weren't nearly cool enough to be in.

It occurred to me, as we were sitting there in a fabulous bar, with a fabulous view, having fabulous drinks and watching fabulous people strut around without post partum bellies or stuff leaking out of their boobs that now smelled of pinot grigio, that date nights have really changed for us.

For example, topics of conversation included: "I can't remember the last time I shaved my legs," and "If you don't treat your athletes foot you're just going to keep giving it back to me."

Also we kept looking at our watches and saying things like, "I can't believe it's only 8:30! It feels like 2am!"

It's just interesting that what used to be a spur of the moment Tuesday night outing - dinner and drinks - is now something that we look forward to for weeks, giggling and prancing around the kitchen like school girls when we thought about it.

I'm working on teaching Ellie how to drive the van so that next time she can DD.

The baby that stole Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 21:14:00 +0000

Yesterday, a month and a half ahead of schedule, I took down the Christmas decorations. A task that usually leaves me sad and a little forlorn, hence why I try to put it off until Valentine's Day. Or our long dead Christmas tree bursts into flames because someone flipped on the overhead light. Whichever comes first.

But this year I was champing at the bit to put this holiday season far behind us. As much as I usually look forward to Christmas and all that it brings - the family gatherings, baking cookies, driving around looking at lights, afternoons spent shopping for the perfect gifts - I was equally looking forward to getting this one over with.

With the chaos that inevitably accompanies a newborn baby, everything about this holiday was done as a formality. The bare minimum so that in 30 years when Ellie sits in therapy she can't blame any of her problems that one time her parents skipped Christmas.

A neurotic Mom who airs all of her dirty laundry on a blog - yes. Lack of holiday cheer - no.

Shopping for presents was a stressful and rushed afternoon activity that I tried to squeeze in between doctors appointments and falling asleep behind the wheel because my boob had been in someone's mouth since 2:30am.

Each night our house sat sadly engulfed in darkness as our neighbors' glowed bright.

Even getting a tree seemed like too much trouble. Hell, we didn't even put the Rubbermaid container away after we lugged it up from the basement and took out the stockings. We just put a plant on the top, threw some presents underneath on Christmas Eve and called it good.

My goal is to be back in holiday fighting form by Easter. Please say a prayer we don't have any more babies in the meantime.

Girl, Interrupted

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 19:55:00 +0000

When I was in high school my church youth group delivered casseroles to the elderly house bound members of our congregation. I was assigned to two houses - Morty and Edna - and I would usually hang around for an hour or two and visit. I remember thinking how pitiful their lives were. Confined to their homes, maybe getting out once a week to go and get some groceries or visit the doctor. Totally reliant on other people to do things for them.

Well let me tell ya, ole Morty and Edna are international jet setters compared to this girl these days. Over the past month a very ass-specific indention has formed on my couch and I've gotten into several arguments with myself over the thermostat.

My grim reality set in yesterday as I was doing a quick inventory of my Christmas gifts. A few years ago I received things like Ann Taylor gift cards, luggage tags and a cool laptop bag. This year I was excited about a Pizza Hut gift card, subscriptions to Netflix and US Weekly and a hand held vacuum. And people keep stopping by my house bearing casseroles with pitiful looks in their eye.

Well, first shocked looks in their eye as I open the door looking like rotten ass, but then the shock usually turns into pity as I regale them with stories about how you can have anything, ANYTHING delivered right to your front door, you see? Society has enabled us to never have step foot outside of our houses again!

I've attempted to leave the house two times with all three kids, and both times I had another adult there to help. And both times ended with me realizing there is NO WAY IN HELL I'm ever going to be able to leave the house again by myself with my kids. Simply getting a 2 1/2-year-old, 15-month-old and 4-week-old in and out of a van requires a well-thought-out intricate logistical strategy. And once inside, requires two carts and four arms.

It's much easier to just sit inside and watch Hoarders. Looking out the window is almost like going somewhere, right?

My days are mostly spent thinking about how it's against nature's plan for human beings to only sleep in 2-hour bursts and wondering how long it will be before the lack of sleep takes a toll on my sanity as I watch TV from behind my couch because I must hide from the midgets trying to break into my house via the chimney.

I can hear those little bastards' feet up there... tap tap tapping around... taunting me.

On Thursday our Helper Of The Day was my little sister Sarah, who lives three hours away and couldn't get here until 11:00. For the first time in four weeks I woke up with the girls and was solely responsible for getting them dressed and feeding them breakfast.

At first I was excited to be doing something that vaguely resembled our old routine but as I rummaged through the cupboards, bleary eyed, I realized I had no freaking clue what we had in our kitchen. We've had helpers here every day and I hadn't been to the grocery store in I don't know how long. I noticed a Post-It note stuck to the side of the refrigerator with a grocery list written in three different people's handwriting so I was guessing I needed to get to the store.

This suspicion was confirmed as I served them leftover chicken burritos with a side of Chick-Fil-A sauce and wine for breakfast.

At first it was fun to have so much help. To watch other people carry my laundry up the stairs. Lift the girls onto the changing table. Vacuum around my feet. To tell my Mom what I want for dinner, hand her the baby and go upstairs and take a nap.

"I really wish I could help, but I can't. Doctor's orders!" I would lie as they wiped sweat from their brow.

I know I'm going to regret this statement in a couple of weeks when I'm able to resume post c-section "normal" activity, but I'm SO ready to get back to normal life. SO ready to be able to just hop in the van, take the kids and go do something fun. SO tired of relying on other people to get me clean underwear.

Don't get me wrong - we are UBER lucky to have so many friends and family willing to sacrifice their precious free time to do my heavy lifting. And there's just something satisfying about watching my Mom stand on a kitchen chair and dust my ceiling fan.

It's just that I hate asking people for help. I feel like douche of the year as I lean to the person next to me and say, "Can you go put my nursing bras in the dryer, please?"

We've got a few more months before Hadley is sleeping through the night, which to me is the indicator we've reached the "normal" milestone.

Though I'm really afraid my "normal" is about to take on a whole new meaning.

The plague

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 20:40:00 +0000

So last week was a big fat barrel of laughs around the ole Mayer house.

The excitement started on Tuesday, when Ellie tagged along to Hadley's 3-week doctor appointment because I thought she had pink eye.

I'd never seen pink eye, but my first clue that she might have pink eye was that her eye was pink.

When the doctor told me she did in fact have pink eye at first I was happy because I had successfully diagnosed a major medical condition.

But then I found out I was going to have to give her eye drops four times a day. Which I immediately knew would first involve bribery, then tearful pleading, and ultimately sitting on her chest, knocking her unconscious with a turkey leg and keeping her that way by strapping Lila's poopy diaper over her nose until I could administer said medicine.

The next morning - as I should have anticipated - the pink eye had worked its way down the food chain.

Which, despite starting some eye drops right away, progressed to this -

Then this -

And finally, this -

Maybe the kids will get that dog they've always wanted after all.

In addition to the pink eye, they both had a nice little virus complete with runny nose, cough and fever. So for the next few days my challenge became keeping the newborn away from the germ vectors. Which sounds really easy and fun, but in practice is impossible. They are like little heat seeking missiles. So I just decided to give up and get it over with and let the girls spit in Hadley's mouth.

But after three days and still no virus, Hadley decided to get in on the action by pooping her guts out for a couple of days. When I innocently called the physician exchange on Friday night to find out how much Pedialyte I should give her they instructed me to immediately rush her to the ER to get checked out.

Which is pretty much the opposite of what I wanted to do right then. Wheel of Fortune was about to start so Nick volunteered to take her.

Fortunately she was fine but the doctor noticed she had something called thrush. I thought her white tongue was just a side effect of the marshmallows I'd been feeding her but no - thrush is fungus. In her mouth.

Now, she is my baby and I am required by law to love her unconditionally. But I don't know if I can love something with mouth fungus. We are not that kind of a house. Mayers don't get mouth fungus.

The holiday week was topped off on Saturday night when I made the executive decision that, despite pink eye, fevers, mouth fungus and a crying fit/temper tantrum because my nice pair of pants was screaming for mercy as they threatened to split from the post-baby flab stuffed in them, we were going to church.

Dammit.

Unfortunately everyone in the metro area also had the same idea - to come to our church - and by the time we got there it was standing room only. Which I did for about five minutes before I decided that this was bullshit and Jesus wouldn't have wanted it this way, stomped out and found Nick as he was dropping the girls off in the nursery, told him we were leaving, and then made a Christmas Eve family trip to the grocery store in our church clothes to buy poultry seasoning and maxi pads.

And beer.

The end.

From our family to yours, happy holidays.

Two's company

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:19:00 +0000

The good news: Apparently we have (yet another) baby who likes to sleep 21 hours a day. Note to pregnant Moms everywhere - when people tell you to lay off the sauce because you're "pregnant", nod and ignore them. Yes, Ellie may get a little cross-eyed from time to time, and Lila likes to drink toilet water, but I believe my weekly wine allowance had a direct effect on bearing three good sleepers.  And that's a sacrifice that I'm willing to make.

The bad news:  Said baby prefers her waking hours to be between 2-5am. And if I learned anything in college, it's that nothing good happens between 2-5am. I've had four people tell me that sleep deprivation is one of the most cruel types of torture that can be used on prisoners of war.  These words of encouragement ring in my ears as I sit in bed at 3am with the thousand yard stare while Hadley looks at me with eyes that say, "Thanks for the boob - now where's the after party?"

It's really hard not to get angry and frustrated, especially with these raging hormones and hours of uninterrupted sleep that I can count on one hand. But I just try to think of all the cute things about her, like her little toes, or the beautiful auburn highlights in her hair when the sunlight catches it just right.

And by sunlight I mean warm glow of the television set while we watch Threes Company at 2:30am.

What, you think I can actually leave the house with three kids?

The most excitement I've had since coming home from the hospital was that I got my first Brazilian on Friday night. It was actually the result of standing up and adjusting the colossal post c-section maxi pad wedgie I got from sitting on the couch addressing Christmas cards for three hours straight, but so exhilirating... in a bad way.

I was all, "Yowsa! Happy birthday, MISTER PRESIDENT!"

Nick came running in all, "Are you okay? What happened?"

And I was all, "Well, you'll find out in about 4-6 weeks... IF you play your cards right."

And I just have to say, as much flack as I give him on this blog, I need to give props where props are due. The man is a machine - taking care of the kids so I can take a nap, cleaning, cooking, letting me sleep in every morning until our "helper of the day" gets here even though it means a busier day at work for him. He even bought me a very nice "thanks for having a baby" gift.

So hopefully this one paragraph makes up for the countless posts where I call out everything he's ever done that sucks.

Even Steven.

Now if you'll excuse me I hear slurping coming from the bathroom and I haven't seen Lila in 20 minutes.

The other side

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 20:59:00 +0000

Recently I read a really relevant-to-my-life-right-now post on a blog I follow about a Mom who has reached the "other side" of motherhood.

You know - The Other Side?

The side where you go to bed with the knowledge that you won't have to wake up for 8 whole hours. The side where you tell your kids to go take a bath and you'll be up to read them a story after you finish your whiskey sour. The side where you tell them to get their own damn milk, I'm not your maid for crying out loud!

Right now I am on the opposite of The Other Side.  With a 2 1/2-year-old, 15-month-old and 2-week-old I am so deep in the trenches I can't see daylight.

At first the thought of being out of the trenches seems glorious and magical, sort of like finding a $20 bill in the back pocket of your jeans. Especially right now. Because when you have a newborn everything about your life gets put on hold.

EVERYTHING.

And while on hold temporarily, it's on hold indefinitely.

Everything I've struggled to learn over the past 15 months with two children I have to totally start over and re-learn how to do with three. Our trump tight morning routine. Getting into and out of the car.  Lunch.

Every milestone - eating at a restaurant, taking the train at the zoo, going to the park or just playing in the back yard... now that we have a newborn it's back to the hovel we go. We're starting again from scratch.

And my body... oh sweet lord my body. Since grade school I've had about 10 - 15 extra pounds hanging around, so it's not so much the weight that's bothersome so much as it's the... well... this shit is jacked up in a serious way. It just ain't right. With each pregnancy it's gotten progressively worse and now it's to the point where I don't know if I should call a trainer or a priest. I've got things bulging here and hanging there... by the time Nick is legally allowed to come within a 50-foot-radius of me again he'll need a road map.  Maybe I'll just tell him to follow the stretch marks that run north and south.

Including the two miscarriages I had before Ellie, I've been pregnant 34 out of the past 48 months. And you can pretty much fill in the rest of the blanks with breastfeeding. Call me selfish, but I'm ready to stop sharing my body parts. I'm ready for things to stop leaking out of me. I'm ready to be able to take cold medicine the next time I'm sick.

I'm ready to reclaim my body, my career, my life. I'm ready to go on a family vacation to the beach and take a girls road trip to the American Doll store in Chicago. I'm ready to pee without an audience.

But then there's the other side of being on The Other Side.

I'm just going to say it - and you're going to call me crazy and send me links to everything I've written over the past five months - I'm going to miss being pregnant. I waddle into a room and immediately become the girl everyone wants to talk to.  Strangers everywhere want to know everything about me, want to share their own pregnancy/baby/parent stories and before I know it I've made a room full of new friends.

People scramble to get me second helpings of ice cream. I even got a free case for my new phone because the AT&T sales person said I looked like I was "miserably suffering" as I tried to walk across the store.

Cool, huh?

And then there's the excitement, the unparallelled awesome anticipation of meeting the person that you created with your husband (or one night stand - I'm not judging) for the first time. Having their little personalities revealed to you bit by bit, one day at a time, like a flower opening up to the sun.

The first smile, the first word, the first steps, feeling their gentle breath on your neck as you carry them, limp and sleeping up to their beds... well, there are just no words in the English language sacred enough to describe what these things do to your heart.

And it makes me sad to think about that coming to an end.

I'm 35 now - the sun is starting to set on my child bearing years. And I'm really, really ready to get out of the holding pattern and let the good times roll.

So am I absolutely, positively sure we're done having kids? Yes. No doubt. Absolutely.

Am I going to let my maternity clothes hang in my closet for a couple more years just in case? Yes. No doubt. Absolutely.

Lila and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 17:16:00 +0000

Yesterday was not Lila's day.

It started out like every other day. She woke up at 6:15 and began making indecipherable noises to wake up Ellie, who acts as her Get Up and Get Mom and Dad Out of Bed mule now that Ellie has achieved the pedal freedom that accompanies a big girl bed.

Lila has found this to be a more effective strategy than trying to get us out of bed by yelling at us from her crib. It's a lot easier to ignore something chattering in a crib than a toddler opening your eyelids, asking to watch Mega Mind for the millionth time.

Anyhoo, Nick is still on paternity leave so we decided to join every other bleary-eyed, bed headed, half-dressed man, woman and child on baby leave in the metro area and go to Target at 8:30am. I really think Target should take advantage of all these overwhelmed, half-awake time wasters and sponsor some sort of breast feeding support class in the diaper section. Or, better yet, because most of us have already been awake for nine hours by 8:30am, a happy hour back in electronics. Put a good movie on those big screens, bust out some wine and just let her ride.

Shopping with three kids under 30 months requires special provisions, one of which is that we now need two carts. Nick thought it would be more fun for the girls to sit in the back of the cart, vs. putting Lila in the front and using the seat belt. You know, the seat belt designed to keep kids from falling out of the cart.

Mere minutes into our trip I looked over to see Lila hanging over the side of the cart, and before you can say "life in a wheel chair" she did a full frontal flip over the edge, landing smack on her back. It was the most awful sound, sort of like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground if a sack of potatoes had lungs.

For a moment she just laid there and looked like she might do a snow angel or two but I realized she was just trying to figure out why she was suddenly looking at the ceiling. Of course the fun part came next, where she started screaming and then I count the seconds until security escorts me to the nearest prison.

Once we got home Nick decided to take them on a walk around the block, where Lila promptly tripped and fell on the sidewalk, bloodying her cheek and nose. And while I was upset for her pain I was more upset about the Christmas pictures we were supposed to take that afternoon. I put a lot of effort into those outfits!

Well, okay, she's actually wearing Ellie's outfit from last year. Oh, and I forgot to make sure the shoes fit (they didn't) so she doesn't have any shoes, but still.

I mean, not that Christmas pictures EVER turn out to meet my expectations anyway.

Yes, Ellie is playing with firewood, Hadley is screaming her balls off, and Lila looks like she was involved in a knife fight.

And then there was this whole mess.

Where I heartlessly, callously forced her into the arms of a 300 pound bearded stranger and told her to ask Santa to bring Mommy some whiskey.

However, in Lila's defense, Ellie wasn't thrilled with the whole Santa idea either.

This was taken three seconds before she started crying so hard she almost threw up.

Fa la la la la.

Mecca lecca high mecca hiney ho

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 15:26:00 +0000

The day after Hadley was born they took out my catheter and my worst fear was realized - I couldn't pee.

Well now that's not entirely true.

Being 24 hours post partum I had lots of worst fears, like the pediatrician coming in and telling me that Hadley has two butt holes like Lila did. Which actually happened the next day, by the way. See how this time I didn't freak out and think she was going to be paralyzed?

Apparently this whole "two buttholes" (or deep sacral dimple, if you want to get all technical) thing runs in families and the doctor told us that if we went home and took a close look then Nick or I probably have one. An activity that I thought would be a fun little way to pass the time once we got home, but Nick said some things are better left a mystery.

My money's on him having the extra butt hole, by the way.

Anyhoo, as with the last time I had a baby, I ended up having to wear the catheter for four horrible days, all the while knowing that if I can't pee before I leave then I'm going to have to go home with this awful thing.

Hang on - let me do some Amish Photoshop on that post-baby belly.

There. That's better.

If you've never worn a catheter, let me paint a little picture for you. First, put in a tampon.  Then pull it out halfway. Then tie a hose to the bottom of the tampon and connect it to the most embarrassing, personal thing that you wouldn't want to broadcast to the world that you can find. For example, your own excrement would be a good example of a personal thing that you wouldn't want to broadcast to the world.

Then, do some fun things like take a shower, walk around or just sit down. Careful to keep the bag below your crotch or all the pee might flow back in and... YOWSA!

I hadn't planned on this happening again so I only packed one pair of shorts. The fact that you have to thread it through your pant leg makes wearing long pants really hard.  And, we all know that you need more than one pair of shorts while in the hospital, for obvious reasons.

I had lots of nurses to impress with my awesome post-baby pj wardrobe.

Me: I had a little accident and I need you to bring me some new shorts when you come visit this afternoon.

Nick: What happened?

Me: I don't want to get into all the details, but it looks like the Texas chainsaw massacre in my bathroom.

Nick:  Thanks for not getting into all the details.  Which shorts do you want?

Me: Just bring the biggest, darkest ones you can find in my closet.

(two hours later)

Me: What are these?

Nick: The shorts you asked for.

Me: (silence)

Me: These are really short. And white.

Nick: Yeah, you look hot in them.

Me: These are, like, my junior high cheerleading shorts.

Nick: I thought you were in marching band.

Me: Let's not split hairs.

Nick: Well, I also brought these.

Me: Hand me my old shorts, please.

My hospital stay did have its high points, though. Literally. On Thursday evening just as one of our friends was visiting my ears started ringing and it sounded like everyone was yelling at me from the end of a tunnel. I also kept forgetting where I was and my head felt detached from my body and all I could think of was that I felt like Jambie.

I thought I was having a stroke, probably because the night before my friend Andi told me about this blog started by some guy whose wife died 24 hours post partum from a blood clot.

Timing is not really her thing.

Upon closer inspection, however, the nurse determined that I was not, in fact, having a stroke.

I had taken too much percocet and was tripping balls.

Luckily it only lasted for about two hours, and every time I started to feel like I was floating out of my body and freak out Nick kept reminding me that a lot of people pay good money for what I was feeling.

So I decided to just ride it out and called down to the cafeteria and had them hook me up with some Raisinettes.

I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that my prayers were answered when I finally peed on my own the morning I was discharged.

And if you've made it this far through this post without either barfing or unfollowing then I know you're a true friend. Or have had a baby and all this excrament talk is common dinner conversation at your house.

The Labor: Part II - Tales From The Crypt

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 13:39:00 +0000

Well now that I've successfully scared the crap out of everyone and I'm pretty sure put on a hospital suicide watch, I'll get on with my story.

As I was saying... in what might be considered by some to be the most selfless and unwavering act of marital loyalty ever, I continued to endure horrific back pain and held off on drinking the labor tea until Sunday so Nick could work the entire Thanksgiving weekend. See what an awesome wife I am?

Who knows if this tea actually works, or if it's "just a big coincidence and a gimmick but please don't drink it until after Thanksgiving weekend so I don't have to find a back up." All I know is that three days after I started drinking it when I was pregnant with Lila my water broke (5 days before my due date), and two days after I started drinking it with Hadley I went into full on labor (11 days before my due date).

Tuesday morning started out like every other morning. I woke up at 4am feeling like someone had accidentally left their hatchet in my spine and the only way to get it back to them was to pee it out my butt. But this time as I hobbled to the bathroom something felt different. And by different I mean like a horrific stabby bladder charlie horse.

Throughout the morning the horrific stabby bladder charlie horses started coming every four minutes and before I knew it they had expanded from just the bladder to most of the area covered by my stretch marks. They were only lasting about 20 - 30 seconds, and had not yet become crippling, so when I called J.T.'s office and was able to joke with the nurse we both agreed that a good plan was to decrease activity and increase fluid intake to see if they would taper off and I would make it to my scheduled c-section on December 6th.

Of course the idea that I might be going into labor was enough to send me into a frantic tailspin thinking about all the things I still needed to do, because god knows after the baby comes I will probably never leave the house again.

Which is pretty much the opposite of decrease activity.

It suddenly became IMPERATIVE that I immediately buy Ellie's Christmas shoes.

So after I dropped Ellie off at pre-school, Lila and I headed to Target to find the best darn pair of Christmas shoes that a major discount retailer could offer me. Throughout our trip the contractions started to form a game plan and strengthen, so we hurried.

But as we headed home I also remembered that we were almost out of soap.

This whole "decrease activity" thing was really just a big suggestion in my mind as I ran across the parking lot and into the grocery store carrying Lila on my shoulders. Plus I was more than ready to get this party started, hence why I was drinking the tea in the first place.

In the checkout line the contractions had figured out what they were supposed to do and I hunched over the credit card machine and did some pattern breathing while apologizing to the checker, who looked like she was on the verge of barfing.

When I got home I couldn't find a stop watch so I did the next best thing - download a contraction tracker app. Unfortunately it was 99 cents wasted because I only got through two contractions before I decided that death was preferable to the pain I was feeling and I knew I needed to get to the hospital STAT.

I also ignored all pre-surgery instructions and ate a cheese dog okay two cheese dogs, because I knew those rat bastards at the hospital wouldn't let me eat anything for a really long time after the c-section. A split-second decision that I would later come to regret.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, Nick was missing three fingers, an arm and several threats of a penis.

Looking back I always feel a bit foolish when I reflect upon my actions in situations such as this. When not in extreme pain I realize that screaming "EPIDURAL BITCH!" to the nurse every time she asked me a question as she was trying to check me into the hospital might not have been appropriate.

But in the moment it was my only option. I needed her to understand that I was in more pain than anyone has ever been in and if she didn't do something about it then her family would pay the consequence.

What makes matters worse in these labor situations is that the labor bed is about as comfortable as laying on a metal 2 X 4. I mean seriously, shouldn't this be the one time in our lives when the bed should look like a fluffy cloud?

Finally, FINALLY the angel of mercy came in and gave me an epidural so I could have some relief while I waited for my turn in the c-section line.

Everything after that was a blur. I remember the nurses getting all judgey-judgey with my answer of "cheese dog" when they asked me about my last meal. I remember everyone in the OR very happy with my choice in music for my baby birthing mix. I remember having to have another epidural and then another spinal seconds before J.T. was about to cut into me because I still had feeling in my stomach. I remember Nick telling me "it's a girl!" with just a shade of Ann Boleyn-type judgement in his voice.

And now we have the most perfect creature on planet Earth.

Three of the most perfect creatures on planet Earth.

See how Ellie is already flashing her own little gang sign? I think it's a "C" for crypts. I'm currently planning our first girls trip to Long Beach to see Snoop's childhood home.

My friends and I celebrated the girl trifecta the next night in my hospital room by dying my hair pink, which gave me TONS of street cred with the hospital staff.

And, because everyone loves a happy ending - what I told my friend Amy who sent me such a nice "hey please don't jump" email after my post last night, was what I'm learning... continuing to learn... both as I get some of my emotions out on paper and in my times of emotional upswing, is that while challenging now, I'm also giving my kids one of the greatest gifts in life - siblings.

Which is something I'm sure they'll come to appreciate in about 25 years.

And also, the fact that all of this has gone not according to my master plan has forced me to evaluate and accept life as it comes, flaws and all.

I've learned how to re-prioritize and truly appreciate the "good" stuff in life. Which includes what I used to think were my weaknesses and shortcomings - things that have turned out to actually be some of my best qualities.

But most importantly, now I can drink wine.

Things are looking up.

The Labor: Part I - I Get Delirious

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 23:44:00 +0000

Spoiler alert... it's a girl!

Yesterday, November 29, at 3:58pm Hadley Marin joined our already estrogen-wealthy family, ensuring Nick's slow yet inevitable descent into Hormone Hell.

I tell you this up front because I'm running on two hours sleep and I have no idea how many posts this momentous occasion might get milked into. I'm most likely going to veer off into some really weird directions and I at least wanted to give you the important information up front in case you decide to bail when I start digging into the details of my spanking new pee bag.

So since you're already here, I think I'm going to start a few months back.

And I say what I'm about to say with the full knowledge that it's impossible to take something back once it's been thrown out into the Blogosphere. And with the full knowledge that one day Hadley will probably read this and I just might want to because she'll realize that I've not always been the world's most perfect Mom she thought I was, despite popular opinion.

But I also say this with the knowledge that I started this blog as a way to get, and give, support from you all. And with the knowledge that one day she might even be dealing with the same emotions that I've been fighting.

So I'll just say it - the past few months I've been having a very difficult time with regard to this pregnancy.

Nick and I knew we wanted to have a third baby, but 14 months after the last baby was not exactly what we had planned.

I think this picture speaks a thousand words.

When I brought Lila home from the hospital, Ellie was 16 months old and the first few months of her life I was definitely off my Mom game. And by off my Mom game I mean I literally almost called the child abuse hotline on myself four times that I can remember.

I was short with Ellie for acting out because she was terrified that I would abandon her in favor of a younger model. I was short with Nick because he didn't get home fast enough. I was even short with Lila, then just a newborn, because she wouldn't sleep enough and she completely thrashed my nipples.

But most of all I was disappointed with myself because I couldn't do it as good as the other Moms. As fast as the other Moms. As smart as the other Moms. As skinny as the other Moms. I wasn't the Mom I had always envisioned myself to be.

Every day I went to bed feeling like a big Mom failure and I didn't have any clue where to even begin to make it better. So I usually ended up taking out my frustrations on my family. And hating myself for it.

As the due date for this baby grew closer, so did my fear that I would be spending the first few months of 2012 again in a dark place. Without the tools to be the Mom my awesome kids deserved. Living every day in survival mode, then waking up one day to find they were six months older and somehow I had forgotten to stop and smell the roses. Completely abandoning the idea of experiencing any joy in parenthood.

My terror - and I don't use that word loosely, terror - for what would happen when this baby came completely overtook the happiness and excitement that should accompany a new baby's arrival.  I knew this baby deserved as much fanfare and celebration as the other two, yet I was unable to allow myself to experience the unconditional happiness that good parents should feel toward their unborn children. And the accompanying guilt was all-consuming.

See, I told you I might want to take some of this back once I've slept.

One night I finally had the courage to tearfully admit this to Nick. And together we worked out a game plan, deciding to hire a nanny three days a week once the baby came.  A cost that required us to re-finance our house so we could tap into some of the equity, but we both agreed that was a small price to pay to avoid Hannah Mayer landing the lead role on an episode of Snapped.

It wasn't the only solution to our challenges, but it was a very good start. We're trying to work through some other issues, like how to find a balance between his demanding work schedule and his demanding family obligations.  And I'm trying to work through some of my own issues, like how to remember that Ellie is only two and she's going to throw a tantrum or two. Or seventeen thousand.

And how to laugh and just focus on how I can use it as a bribery tool when she's 16, and not focus on how much I suck as a Mom.

And how to just go ahead and expect Lila to take five massive dumps every day, all when we're either about to walk out the door when we're running really really late or when we're at Oktoberfest and I forgot to put more diapers in the diaper bag after I used the last one the week prior.

So feeling better, though still a little apprehensive, about our impending bundle of joy, on Sunday - nine days before our scheduled c-section - I cracked open my first bag of red raspberry leaf tea. AKA The Send You Into Labor Tea.

And send me into labor it did.

Nine and three quarters

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 15:42:00 +0000

Nick: So explain to me again why you're drinking that tea to make yourself go into labor when you have a c-section scheduled next Tuesday?

Me: Because I'm miserable! I need to get this baby out STAT.

Nick: So why don't you just move up the c-section?

Me: No! I don't want the baby to come before it's ready! I want it to come out on its own time. You can't rush these things - it has to get good and cooked.

Nick: Oh. (turns back around to watch Ghost Adventures).

Nick: Why are you drinking the tea again?

Me: Look. I am nine and three-quarters months pregnant. It's not my job to make sense right now. Now run to the store and get me some red velvet cupcakes and a container of bacon bits.

The little black tent

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 19:41:00 +0000

If you read my Facebook status on Saturday you'll recall that I had a mini panic attack mid-afternoon because I had to go to to a black tie event for Nick's work and I was completely unprepared wardrobe wise. I had a dress that I thought might work until I tried it on three days before and the six-inch gap in the zipper area gave me good reason to believe it would not work.

So I did what I do best - ignore the problem and hope that it would just fix itself as I ate an entire batch of pumpkin cupcakes over the sink.

I spent Saturday morning walking around the neighborhood flexing my sphincter muscle trying to make myself fart in an effort to break my water. When that didn't work I knew I was screwed. My plan C was a nice pair of black yoga pants which I thought I could pull off at a black tie event by smothering the room in my unparallelled charm and wit but unfortunately icing leaves a lasting stain.

By some miracle of God, half a bottle of lotion, a pair of pliers, four hands, foggy memories from a free SCUBA lesson at Sandals about how to rid my lungs of air and a lunch of Coke Zero, it zipped.

Of course after about 1/2 hour I lost feeling in my feet and I think I saw a baby hand signaling SOS fly out of my crotch when I went to the bathroom later, but at that moment victory was mine.

I was feeling pretty damn good about myself until the drive home when I looked at the party picture that was taken of Nick and me when we arrived. I mean... I know I'm pregnant and all, but Jesus.

My boobs looked like two dead catfish stuck to my chest and my arms looked like two trash bags filled with cake batter. And don't get me started about my chins, which have now completely wrapped themselves around my face. Good lord.

A single picture unleashed a chain reaction of depression about what's happened to my body, which was never really that great to begin with. A single picture that is now rotting at the bottom of a landfill with no one to talk to except the empty container of icing sharing its trash bag home.

I tried to think of my awesome kids, about how they are worth it. Think back to the frustration and despair I felt when we were trying to get pregnant with Ellie. But every positive thought just morphed itself into a giant stretch mark pointing to the cellulite which has now creeped all the way down to my knees.

It feels so narcissistic to get all upset about what pregnancy has done to my body. And by pregnancy I mean existing on a diet of Chick Fil-A and pumpkin cupcakes. The actual pregnancy can only be blamed for 60% of this damage.

I guess the happy ending here is that once baby #3 comes I won't actually have time to eat and my once mediocre figure will be back before you know it.

While I'm away...

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 16:29:00 +0000

It's official. December 6th at 11:30am the red curtain (aka my uterus) will part and Mayer Child #3 will make his or her debut onto planet earth.

While I'm spending my 5-day vacation in Percocetville catching up on celebrity gossip, Nick will have a lot of one-on-one time with the girls. A thought which makes me a little uneasy considering when I left for a girls' weekend in August I came back to find about 40 Hershey's wrappers in the trash and noticed Ellie had developed a permanent eyebrow twitch.

Also I'm sure you all remember that other time I came home to find he had safety pinned my baby to the sheet while she slept to protect her from SIDS.

So I thought it might be beneficial to leave him with a list of helpful reminders. A public list of helpful reminders so I have some sort of legal leverage should something go terribly wrong.

1. I don't care if they are baby teeth "and they're just going to fall out anyway." Brush them. Twice a day. With a toothbrush. And toothpaste. Lila loves to have her teeth brushed. Ellie can get a little squirrly sometimes about brushing her teeth and occasionally we have to do it "the hard way": First, sit on the toilet stool and wrap your legs around her hips so as to render her immobile. With your left hand, pin her arms down while you lock her head into place between your ear and shoulder, making sure to pinch her nose shut with your chin, blocking the airway good and tight. Once her mouth opens and she gasps for air, brush like hell.

2. Comb Ellie's hair every morning. I usually do this after the brushing of the teeth because if you do in fact have to brush the teeth the hard way it will inevitably mess up her hair as she tries to wriggle free to breathe.

3. I know they think it's the !most fun ever!, but please don't run around the grocery store pushing the cart up and down the aisles like a NASCAR ass hole. The grocery store has become my primary channel for a social outlet and many days the workers provide my only adult interaction. I've worked very hard over the past two years to establish a reputation there for myself and I don't want it tarnished because you accidentally plow over some old lady.

4. Dance practice is in the living room from 3pm - 4pm. No exceptions. Lila has a lot of work to do on that booty slap.

5. You know that thing you do where you hold them upside down by their ankles behind your back and swing them around and I always say "please please please for the love of Christ stop doing that you're going to give me a heart attack?" Yeah, don't do that.

6. Open all pieces of mail. If something has an envelope inside it usually means you're going to have to do something with it. First, log on to our bank account and click 'online banking.' You know what? Forget it. Just bring these pieces of mail to me when you visit.

7. Sesame Street is on at 9. You're probably going to want to feel like drinking vodka about 15 minutes in. But you can't because there's a good chance you're going to run out of milk at some point during the day and have to drive to the grocery store. If you can, try to wait to drink until 4pm. Now that daylight savings time is over you can usually trick them into going to bed at 5:30.

8. Lila says 4 words and does 1 sign - down, yeah, vitamin, yellow and signs more. At first I thought her choices foolish and impractical.  Personally, I would have opted for something more self-serving or at least helpful, like please give me food (middle finger sign), or the house is burning (loud whistle). However, you'll find that observing the context and paying close attention to her varied inflections these 4 words pretty much cover all the bases.

I could go on for days but really, this is all just gravy. I would be thrilled beyond belief to come home and find they're both alive and in one piece.  That's really all I can ask of myself each morning when I wake up. I consider each day a victory if someone didn't swallow a penny or starve to death.

This is my last pregnancy and I can't go through this again to make any replacements.

Another one bites the dust

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 19:51:00 +0000

Over the weekend we completed the last of the necessary evils to prepare for Mayer child #3. We bought a mini van.

My 7-year covert mission, Operation Trap Nick, is now complete.

She's a beaut, huh?

The whole experience was surreal, especially the part where I abandoned Sissy Spacek, my Honda Accord and vehicular partner of eight years, naked and stripped of her license plates alone in the dealership parking lot. I'm sure the sales guy will keep his promise that she'll go to a good home.

When I informed my friends of our decision to buy a mini van, the looks on their faces was equivalent to me telling them that sometimes I like to eat kitten brains for dinner.

One by one they each tried to talk me out of it and convince me that an SUV with third row seating would do the trick. An option we did consider, but with three car seats the SUVs weren't wide enough for me to easily maneuver my child bearin' hips to the back.

Also, the mini van's automatic doors and low floorboard were pretty appealing features, right up there with listening to NPR on the sweet surround sound while wearing my snowman sweatshirt making a late night grocery store run for milk.

When I explained this to my friends they all lowered their heads and whispered solemnly, "Well, I guess you're right. I'm sorry. At least it's not forever."

As Nick and I drove out of the parking lot Saturday night with that old familiar "I don't know what just happened in that negotiation room but I'm pretty sure I've been ass raped" feeling, I felt like more of a grown up than I did when I had Ellie.

20-year-olds do have babies. 20-year-olds do not drive mini vans.

Somehow it seemed fitting that the song on the radio as we drove home was Hits From Da Bong. We just sort of drove in silence while Cypress Hill reminded us of a life for which we were now entirely too uncool.

Driving Ellie to pre-school this morning with this beast strapped to my back I felt like I had completed a rite of passage. Right or wrong, just like owning a Jaguar or Harley there is a stigma associated with owning a mini van.

I'm sensible. I value convenience. I'm probably not drunk. I drive a car with a hallway because I have a shit load of kids.

I can already feel the van starting to take over my soul. Now if you'll excuse me I need to go hot glue something.

Somewhere between 35 and 36

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 20:01:00 +0000

This morning I had my 35 week ultrasound to make sure the baby is growing properly and help determine a date for the c-section.

I had an inkling this little fella (or whatever the female variation of fella is... fanny?) was on the larger side, mainly due to the sensation of a combine harvester crushing my spinal discs together every time I attempt to walk, get up off the floor or make a desperate and panicked leap into oncoming traffic.

Oh, and there's also this... The Stomach That Stops People Dead in Their Tracks and Elicits Comments Everywhere We Go:

Meet queso.

Weighing in at 8 pounds, measuring 40 1/2 weeks and femur bones that are off the chart, its interests include: insulin shots, writing pointed letters to airline management for insisting it buy two seats on a flight to Orlando and licking mayonnaise off the game controller while simultaneously defeating its own World of Warcraft high score.

For the first time since I found out I was pregnant I was thanking God that this baby isn't coming out my business end.

Of course my relief was quickly replaced by concern for the baby's health, and this afternoon as I washed down my McDonald's #1 with a chocolate milk shake I wondered if there was something I could have done differently to put this baby in a healthier weight class.

After finishing off last night's leftover mashed potatoes I decided probably not, and I shouldn't be stressing myself out with such thoughts.

I saw the nurse practitioner after my appointment, who will share my chart with J.T. and we'll get a date scheduled next week. All she said, after a sympathetic laugh, was that I'm definitely not making it to my due date.

At this rate I don't even know if I'll make it to tonight. I think I can feel this thing scratching at my tonsils with its toenails.

Grimace

noreply@blogger.com (Hannah) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 18:58:00 +0000

This morning I woke up and my life flashed before my eyes.

Not the life that I've already lived, mind you, filled with free will and pancakes fast food drive throughs. But my future life. My future life making license plates, do-it-yourself tattoos and avoiding prison gang rape.

Ellie was gone.

I vaguely remembered her coming into my room around Why Oh Why Are You Awake O'clock asking to watch cartoons. And like any good Mom I told her the cartoons were still sleeping, rolled over and went back to my awesome dream that my sister-in-law married a pro wrestler which resulted in me frequently turning up looking fabulous in the pages of Us Weekly. I also vaguely remembered her crawling in bed with me right before I drifted off.

I woke up a few hours later to an empty bed and silence. Which was bad. Real bad.

What I should have woken up to was the sound of a 2-year-old emptying her Diaper Genie into a dresser drawer or a certain someone jumping up and down in her bed in an attempt to catapult through her window to freedom.

I leaped out of bed, which is not an easy feat considering my back has passed the point of no return and getting out of bed usually takes about 20 minutes, a Clydesdale and a biting stick.

I pushed through the pain, forcing one foot in front of the other, and in a very Grimace like fashion flailed my arms in circles on either side of me to help propel me forward.

She wasn't in her bed or in her room. Or anywhere upstairs. I hobbled (pants-less, mind you - I also vaguely remembered kicking them off last night because this belly becomes an inferno after 2am) downstairs.

My frantic screams of "ELLIE!" as I limped from room to room were met with silence. I ran, breathless, into the playroom, where she was laying calmly on her stomach doing a puzzle.

"What are you doing?" I asked, acting as cool as possible while trying not to pass out from a combination of pain, panic and eating nothing but Halloween candy for the past 17 hours.

"Playing with blankie," She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh, okay," I said, clutching my chest and getting into the fetal position.

Then I had an idea.

"Hey," I asked, lifting my head off the carpet. "Wanna learn how to make pancakes all by yourself?"