Sweet 16

Here we are at the 16-week mark, four months officially in the books with this pregnancy. I am pleased to say I am finally not sick anymore. I have days here and there where I am still queasy, but I turned the corner in the middle of last week and felt like a fog lifted and things got a whole lot better.

This means I can now prepare food and serve it, which is nice for my family. I also don't scream, "Don't talk about it! Don't talk about it!" when someone innocently brings up an item of food in conversation. It was a rough four months, but it's behind me now.

At my next appointment with my MFM doctor, I will have the big anatomy scan. To the uninitiated, that also means it's the ultrasound where the baby hopefully opens its legs and shows the goods. With both Jack and Emmie, Josh and I were so excited to find out the sex that we begged them to look at appointments even earlier (15 weeks with Jack, 16 weeks with Emmie).

This time around, I am of the mind to have it be a surprise. I know! Those of you who know me know this is so not like me. I am a planner and a control freak and someone who likes to know everything before going into a situation. So for me to not want to find out is so out of character. But my reasoning is that we have a boy and a girl already, and wardrobes to outfit a small village of children of either sex. We have everything we could possibly need for a baby, most of it in pairs because we had two of everything when we used to split time between two houses when Jack was a baby.

But most importantly, this is my last pregnancy. My last baby. My last delivery. And it might be nice to have the moment in the delivery room when the doctor excitedly announces the sex and holds him or her up for us to see. I think I want a little surprise the third time around.

Josh, well he feels a little differently. He doesn't want to wait, he wants to find out now. His reason? He doesn't want to waste time thinking of two names. Honest to God, that is his reason.

I told him last week that I am the one who just spent three months trying not to puke my brains out. I am the one who has had five needles in my back in the last four years (it will be six once this baby is birthed). I am the one who is going to push a baby's head the size of a cantaloupe out of a hole the size of a grape. I think I get a little more say in the matter. He countered with the idea that he could find out and I could still have it be a surprise. Ah, no. Because he will tell a friend and then another friend and before you know it, I'll find out the sex of my child on Facebook.

There was an impassioned speech given this weekend and I think I might have convinced him. Anyone care to share your thoughts on finding out vs. not finding out? Anyone who has done one of each with different pregnancies?

Let's play a game

Yesterday I had the pleasure (read: hellish experience) of driving the children home from Peoria by myself. Josh was staying at his parents' house and I needed to meet my parents in Chicago so they could help with the kids this week. I had timed it perfectly so I would arrive just as my parents were getting off the train so that I would not have to lift Emmie in and out of the car.

Except that particular timing meant we had to leave AFTER nap. And driving long distances with Emmie when she's not sleeping is not fun for anyone. She screams the entire time, outside of the first 25 minutes or any time she has a cup of milk in her piehole. As I can't keep refilling her cup while I am driving alone, that means she is only happy for about 10 additional minutes.

Yesterday, she screamed/whined/cried for approximately 2.5 of the three hours we were in the car. And when I say 2.5 hours, I mean it felt like 25.5 hours.

With 45 minutes to go, Jack's announcement that he had to pee went over really well. I couldn't figure out what to do because he was almost crying and Emmie was screaming and I knew I couldn't lift her out of the carseat and carry her into a bathroom and hold her while trying to help Jack with the potty. And there was no way I was going to be the headline the next day, "Mother leaves toddler alone in car; Child Protective Services says Incompetent Cervix is no excuse."

I asked Jack if he thought he could just pee on the ground next to the car and he looked at me like I had grown a second head and he howled, "Noooooooooooo Mommy. I have to pee in the potty. Not on the ground."

OK. But then the genius moment hit me. I had a McDonald's cup in the car. He had peed in a cup before at the doctor's office and thought it was great fun. I asked him if he wanted to play a fun game.

"What is it?" he asked excitedly.

"You can pee in this cup! Won't that be crazy?" I asked him.

He replied that he would indeed like to play that crazy game. So we pulled over at the very next exit, which happened to have nothing in sight but an empty Ramada Inn parking lot. When life hands you lemons, you make Ramada Inn lemonade. Except that yellow liquid damn well isn't Country Time.

He jumped out of his seat, stood next to car and peed like a champ in the cup. He had a huge smile on his face and announced when he was done, "I dump it out, Mommy!" Umm, not so much buddy. "But Mommy, I will be verrrrrry careful." Again, negativo. But I think he was so happy to find relief that he honestly didn't care.

For anyone who happened to be staying at the Ramada Inn and looking out the window at that time, don't worry. Pee is quite sterile and I dumped it in the grass, not in a puddle on the concrete that you could step in accidentally.

Oh, and I disposed of the cup in my very own garbage can at home. I would have hated for anyone to get the wrong idea about the contents of that cup and have them try to sip the dregs of an orange drink in haste.

No news is good news

I realized today that I forgot to post the results of my two, count 'em TWO, doctor appointments this week. I guess that's because they were mostly routine and boring and while that is awesome, it's also not very interesting or compelling.

First up was the MFM and his official post-surgery checkup. Cervix was great, stitch was snug as a bug and he made a minor adjustment to the end of it because he thought it was probably poking me. He said he didn't need to see me back for four weeks, when they would do my next check as part of the big 20-week ultrasound.

Most of that appointment was spent sitting on my ass, waiting for my doctor to come into the room. I cooled my heels for 45 minutes before he walked in. Good thing I had a book. I also got a bonus ultrasound where we saw WeeBey doing headstands and then flipping horizontal with its little arm behind its head. Got some great profile shots, too. I would post them except this is my third pregnancy and I can't be compelled to actually go to the trouble of scanning the pictures and posting them. Oh and the heartbeat was 147, for those playing along at home.

Today was appointment No. 2, this one with my regular OB. Although technically I should call her my new regular OB because she is not the same OB that I saw with Jack and Emmie. I adored my old OB, but she is so difficult to get in to see and she doesn't see patients on Fridays. I really need appointments on Fridays because Josh is in Chicago. Also, they could not get me in with old OB for the first visit this pregnancy so I saw new OB. But she's not technically new to me because I saw her a few times with both my other pregnancies. I like new OB as much as old OB, so I decided to stay with new OB. Are you confused and/or not reading any further at this point?

So anyway. New OB (heretoforwith known as "my OB") wanted to see me after my cerclage as well, so I found myself in her office this morning. She hesitated to check me, theorizing that poking around in there twice in two days might be overkill, but I assured her the more the merrier. I also reminded her she hadn't yet made her acquaintance with my cervix this pregnancy, so she needed to introduce herself. She, too, pronounced me fit to walk around and said I needed to come back in two weeks. Us high-risk gals go on the bi-weekly plan early because we really like those manual cervical checks. Oh and heart rate was 154.

They already told me to be prepared to wait at my next appointment because my OB is triple-booked. I better bring two novels with me. I can already feel my ass falling asleep on the table while I wait.

He's tripping

When I signed Jack up for summer camp, I had visions of him running around on the playground and bringing home fingerpainted construction paper, full of stories about what he did all day before dropping off for a long nap due to his utter exhaustion.

As week 1 of summer camp wraps up, I have found that as always, my expectations were way out of whack. Oh sure, he ran around on the playground, but that's about all I know. Because the child of few words -- and we all know, he surely doesn't get that from his mother -- won't tell me what he did all morning.

I picked him up the first day very excited to hear all about it. Based on his reports from preschool this year, I knew I would have to ask some questions, but he would usually offer up a few tidbits. Imagine my surprise when I got nothing. I asked what he did and he said, "I don't know." Really? You sat around and did nothing for three hours? Nothing?

Finally about 10 minutes later, he managed to remember something. "Mommy, I sit on a chair in the gym!" OK, think, think. I asked if he had a timeout and he said no. I asked if he was sitting with the teacher, he said no. I asked if other kids were sitting too and he said yes. Hmmm. Then he offered up another detail. "Mommy, I stand in front of a chair and then I sit in it!" Lightbulb moment -- "Buddy, did you play musical chairs?" I asked. "Yes I did!" I felt like I had just played the final round of $64,000 pyramid and lived to tell the tale.

Based on his inability to share details, I am a little worried about tomorrow. Tomorrow the camp is taking a field trip to a different park. On a school bus. Two counselors and 23 3-year-olds. Oh yes, my 3-year-old is going on a field trip with two counselors I have met for approximately 10 total minutes. To say I am slightly concerned is an understatement.

However.

The park they are going to just happens to be our neighborhood park. Not only will Jack feel comfortable there, but he knows the rules there. You don't leave the park, you don't climb up the slide, you play nicely in the shady portion of the sandbox so Mommy doesn't die of heatstroke in the sun. I figured if he goes on a fieldtrip, this is a good one to go on. It doesn't hurt that I am planning to stalk every moment of this fieldtrip from outside the park. I am not above espionage and not only do I want to make sure he's OK, but I am more excited about the opportunity to watch how he interacts with other kids in his natural habitat when I am not around. My telephoto lens is going to come in quite handy for once.

No matter the outcome of this fieldtrip, however, he won't be attending the other two. One is to a nature museum and one is to the Shedd Aquarium. As in a place I could conceivably lose him and I am his mother. He would be with an adult and five other kids. If I was in charge of six kids at the Shedd, I would consider it a success if I emerged with two of them.

I mean who in their right mind from the park district thought, "Hey! You know what would be awesome? Pile all the kids on a bus, bring two extra adults (they specifically said they would only choose TWO parents to help chaperone) and take them them a dark, cavernous museum with lots of corners and hallways and spaces where there are deep pools of water! That sounds like so. much. fun!"

That sounds like so. many. problems. waiting. to. happen! So my child will not be attending those field trips. My sister accused me of being an over-protective mom, but hello, he is THREE. He won't listen to me, what makes me think he would listen to some other mom who has no ability to threaten him with the loss of bis bath?

How about you -- would you (or have you) sent your 3-year-old on field trips without you present?

Can you help him sleep?

Jack has decided 5:45 a.m. is his new wake-up time. I am slowly losing my mind as I do not want this to be my new wake-up time. Emmie most definitely does not want this to be her new wake-up time, as she likes to sleep until 8. If I leave him howling in his room in an effort to get him to go back to sleep (haha! as if!) then he wakes her up. And two grumpy children is too many to deal with before 7 a.m.

Six months ago, Jack was routinely sleeping until 8:15 a.m. Then he suddenly became a 6:45er about three months ago. We have had a few sporadic 7:15s in there, but this week he has taken in to a new low.

I have read that sleep goes to shit around 3.5 years old, and we're on the cusp of 3.5 now. Please, please tell me there is a solution. Because the clock trick I was so proud of a few weeks ago? No longer means anything. He could care less about waiting until the clock says 7 to come out.

Help?

His cheating heart

Last night, Jack was downstairs playing with Josh and cleaning up toys before bed when he asked nicely if he could play Candyland. Because he asked so nicely and we had a couple of minutes, we said sure.

We all went upstairs and Jack and I cleaned up the toys in the living room while Josh busied himself in the kitchen. After a few minutes, I went in to see what in the world was taking so long to grab Candyland off the shelf and bring it in.

I found him RIGGING THE CARDS. I gasped and asked him just what he thought he was doing. I mean, how could he do this? How could he cheat like that? And my God, what was that teaching our child?

He smirked and told me he didn't want a marathon game and Jack needed to be in bed in 15 minutes, so he was simply expediting the whole process. I should have refused to play, but that would have only been hurting Jack, so I reluctantly sat down to play.

We always go in the same order: Jack, Daddy, Mommy. Jack always picks the colors we will all be and then blue guy (for some reason he never has anyone be blue) sits on the side. "He watching us," he says proudly. So now the blue guy is witness to this scam, too. Great.

Jack goes first and wouldn't you know it -- he draws the ice cream cone. For those no longer familiar with the board layout, that is the absolute best card in the deck as it catapults you to the end of the path, leaving you to reach the end with about five more cards.

He was very excited about going alllllllll the way through the board and then graciously told Daddy it was his turn. I remarked that it would be really sad if Jack got the gumdrop card next time, thereby rendering Josh's machinations pointless. Josh just laughed and whispered that he hid the rest of the special cards at the bottom of the deck, so there was no chance.

I hissed, "You are CHEATING at CANDYLAND" and he glared at me and told me Jack totally heard me. I assured him he did not, as he was too busy reaching the end and winning to notice what I was saying.

Josh said it was just sour grapes on my part, as I was mad I didn't get the ice cream cone. Of course, with my next card, I landed on the licorice "lose a turn" and became even more pissed. Karmic justice apparently doesn't exist in the world of Candyland or it would have been Josh who drew that lot. That's OK. I can carry the burden silently.

But someday when Jack gets thrown out of college for forged SAT scores, we'll be able to tie it all back to this. And I will place the blame squarely on his father. I can safely tell him that I was an unwilling accomplice and only participated in this ruse because I felt threatened. Threatened by a rainbow road filled with candy and nuts.

Summer summer summer time

Summer has finally arrived in Chicago. Although it still rained today, we had enough rain-free hours of warm and humid weather to hit the splash park this afternoon.


Emmie jumps right in and starts getting wet, unlike her brother who stayed dry for the better part of three months at this park at this age.


She loves it so much, she even went down the waterslide multiple times. She is our daredevil, for sure.


"I swear to God I will cut you if you make me leave this water park." She has perfected that look, just like her father. I swear, she is Mini Josh.

Then we have Mr. Jack. Jack enjoys taking buckets, filling them up and dumping them out in addition to running around the periphery of the water. At no time does he actually enjoy getting wet. He will do it, but usually only by accident.


His legs look like they're going to slide out from under him, but he has excellent balance.


He's actually IN the water. But Jack, look out for the big metal pole with the big metal screws. That pole! The one right... there.


Yep, he ran right into the pole because he closed his eyes to avoid water splashing in them. Seriously Chicago Park District, did you not SEE this as a hazard when you built it? Metal bolts and screws at toddler height are an excellent design element for a water park.

Another week, another unsightly gash on the forehead. It's going to be a long summer.

You couldn't pay me enough

I have massive amounts of admiration for teachers. I always said Jack's preschool teachers must be saints because there is no way I could spend that much time in a confined space with 10 3-year-olds. My brain would explode.

Same goes for principals and other administrators. Except they have it way worse than teachers because they have to deal with all the shit that goes on in the schools. And in my sister's school, I mean that quite literally.

My sister is an assistant principal at a pretty large high school. She has some crazy-ass stories about her job, the best of which I heard recently.

They had a little problem with someone pooping on the boys' bathroom floor. You read that correctly: on the floor, not in the toilet. After several weeks of this nonsense, she was starting to get really annoyed. But she got a break in the case when a kid in trouble in her office for something unrelated offered to tell her who the Mad Shitter was in exchange for leniency. It's like she's the FBI or something, pulling deals for informants.

The kid gave her a name and she asked how she would know he was telling her the truth. The kid replied that she should ask for the Mad Shitter's cell phone because he had pictures of it that he was showing all over the school.

She hauls the kid down to the office and says, "Give me your phone." He refuses and she demands again and for some reason, he gives it up. My sister, although just 31 and shorter than even the freshman boys, is a badass and can stop a kid cold with her hook-eye look. She scares me sometimes.

She goes through the phone and the kid doesn't have pictures. No, no. he's got video. Of himself crapping on the floor. Now first of all, who does that? And second, who is showing it to his friends?

And yes, my sister had to watch that video. This was clearly not what she was planning when she went through four years of college and two years of graduate school. But she did solve her case, so in the end, it all came out all right didn't it?

Sleep-away summer cramp

Yesterday's big cerclage procedure was so much fun I have decided to never do it again! Technically, that is true, but really, I will never have it done again because I am never going to be pregnant again. But it was oh so much fun. You know, as fun as surgery on your cervix can be.

I checked in at OB Triage two hours before my surgery at 11 a.m. The nurse was taking my history and almost jumped out of her seat when I said it was my third cerclage. She was incredulous that not only did I have two previously, but that both were successful. Makes you feel real confident when the nursing staff expresses surprise. Like "No way! That worked? I'll be damned!"

So after getting the IV started, we just hung out waiting to go upstairs to the Labor and Delivery floor. While I was neither in labor nor delivering, that's where the OR is located, so we just overlooked that little detail.

While we were waiting, Josh looked pained and when I asked him what was wrong, he said that he was hungry. Not that I felt bad for him, he added hastily. He would be quite right, considering I had not eaten for the same amount of time as him and I am pregnant. And would not be eating for another two hours. Guess who went across the street to get some pizza? Hint: not the one with the IV in her arm.

They had me walk upstairs about 12:30 p.m. Apparently, you don't even rate a wheelchair when you have surgery at 14 weeks. Once I got settled into a room, they had the anesthesiologist come in to take another medical history. He too was very impressed with my cerclage track record. I am a living medical miracle.

Five minutes after my scheduled 1 p.m. kickoff, I was escorted into the ER. My last sight of Josh was of him on his computer. Just as I predicted. I am going to pretend he was Googling cerclage success stories and looking up the nearest florist.

Once in the OR, kept at a toasty 60 degrees, I sat on the table and they got started on administering my spinal. Numbing shot to the spine, pressure from the needle and in minutes my legs were numb and we were ready to go. They laid me down on the table, arranged my legs juuuuust so in the heavy-duty leg-encasing stirrups and bathed me in that lovely yellow crap they use to sterilize people for surgery.

My doctor walked in a few minutes later and I reminded him that HE needed to be the stitcher, not the resident. He assured me the resident would only be observing and we got down to business. There were jokes all around and everyone was in a chipper mood. Not even 10 minutes later, they were taking the gloves off and telling me everything went great. My doctor said the third cerclage was the best one yet because he could see the indentations on my cervix from the first two, so he just played connect the dots. I do so love a good coloring book game!

After going back to the recovery room and asking immediately for lunch, we settled in to wait for the spinal to wear off. With cerclage No. 2, I was in a great deal of pain while the spinal wore off because I wasn't able to pee. I begged them to put the catheter back in and they said no twice before I practically commanded them to do so. They apologized after taking out 36 ounces of liquid from my poor little bladder. This time, my doctor OK'd them leaving a catheter in until the medicine fully wore off.

So we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Most people can get up and move around after four hours. At the four-hour mark, I couldn't even feel my ass. Hard to move when you can't make your butt leave the bed. After playing the longest game of Scrabble ever (where Josh used the word "veeps" which I still say is a total bullshit Scrabble word) we were STILL waiting for me to be able to move.

This was making Josh very nervous as he hoped to attend the Cubs-Sox game that night. At 6:30 p.m. I told him there was no way -- I still couldn't walk. But the baseball Gods were on his side and the game was postponed because of rain. Yes, my husband was going to dump me at home after I just had someone drive a truck through my girlie parts to go watch a game featuring two teams he doesn't even like. The only reason I said he could go was because my dad was going to go too and he's a Sox fan. It was all for my dad, I tell ya.

At 7:45 p.m. -- almost seven hours after the surgery -- I finally felt like I could move and the nurse took out my catheter. A few minutes later I was doing a victory dance in the bathroom after I successfully peed. That was the magic thing I needed to do to be able to go home, so we were about to be on our merry way. We finally walked out the door at 8:45 and I was able to be in pain in my own home by 9 p.m.

Since then, I've been in a lot of pain. My cervix is not pleased with this turn of events, but Tylenol every five hours has helped. Tonight I was starting to move around a lot better and felt a little more normal. Spotting is non-existent so far, which is awesome.

The grandmas are taking turns watching the kids and looking after me and Josh is working and being appropriately helpful and thoughtful. The children don't appear to think it's odd that Mommy is hiding upstairs in her bed most of the day. Jack knows he has to be very careful around Mommy, which means no roughhousing, and Emmie is already pissed that I can't pick her up. Oh is she ever in for a surprise. I will take it easy the rest of the week and see my doctor for a followup next Wednesday. All in all, this was easy. Well, as easy as surgery can be.

Hand-stitched craftmanship

Cerclage v3.0 is in place and all went well. I am home, after a seven-hour wait for the spinal to wear off, sore and tired. My cervix is displeased about its new decoration, but that's to be expected.

More on this tomorrow. Right now I am too busy lying on the couch in pain. But baby is fine and I am fine. Oh and Josh is fine. It was a rough day for him, what with the Internet surfing and the pizza-eating (that while I was forbidden from food) and his almost trip to the Cubs-Sox game. Yes, my husband was going to hit the Crosstown Classic this evening after my surgery but it was rained out. His reasoning on why I should let him go: It will make great blog material honey! Mmm hmmm.

Needle in a haystack. Or my back.

Tomorrow at 1 p.m., I will be astride the surgical stirrups once again. I will be exactly 14 weeks, starving because I can't eat after midnight, crabby because I will be nervous, wincing because there will be a needle in my spine and annoyed because I will bet my ass my husband will be surfing the Internet instead of pacing the waiting room.

The cerclage placement itself is so routine to me by now that I feel I could perform it myself. That would result in some serious contortions on my part, but definitely an option to consider.

Seriously, how come no one from "A Baby Story" or any of those other pregnancy TV shows has come knocking at my door? This is some solid material right here. I would give them funny in the face of adversity. Or at least some really smartass commentary. They don't know what they're missing.

In the meantime, let me share a little anecdote with you: don't forget your deodorant when attending a wedding and wearing a sleeveless dress. Because you will be convinced you have BO and spend the entire dinner freaking out that everyone else can smell it and will spend the next 24 hours talking about you. Then you will be forced to walk, in heels, several blocks looking for a convenience store. Which ended up being a gas station. So you then walk back to the hotel and get in your car and drive to a Shopko where you will purchase deodorant and weep with joy upon putting it on in your car.

This is the exact reason I had a fully stocked bathroom basket at my wedding with everything from deodorant to tampons to mouthwash. You just never know when you'll be caught off guard.

You can bet I will be wearing my deodorant tomorrow. Never let them see you sweat in the OR, right?

That's not a dream, it's a nightmare

You know how people complain they have a recurring dream where they're back in school and they haven't been to class all semester but have to show up and take the final and they're all "Oh my God, how am I going to pass?" and then they wake up in a cold sweat?

I was telling Josh the other night that I have a way-weirder whacked-out recurring dream.

I am playing softball, but I can't catch a flyball or field a grounder. In fact, I turn my head away and wince as the ball comes towards me. And with grounders, I pick my head up and my glove comes about a foot off the ground.

And every time I have this dream, which is a couple of times a year and most recently two nights ago, I wake up pissed off at myself. I mean of all the stupid stuff to dream about, this is definitely the stupidest because with the thousands of hours I invested in softball in Little League and then through high school and a week of college*, there is no way I would ever turn my head and wince as the ball came my way. It's just not possible thanks to muscle memory.

Maybe it's my subconscious telling me I am getting old. Maybe it's my actual consciousness telling me I am out of shape, seeing as I have not done any actual exercise (outside of walking) since I got pregnant with Jack FOUR YEARS AGO. Maybe it's the washed-up athlete in me telling me all the muscle memory in the world won't help when you haven't played ball in seven years.

Whatever it is, I would rather have the dream about walking naked down the street. That would embarrass me less than missing an infield pop-up any day.

So, do share: what's your recurring nightmare?

* I had a full four-year scholarship as a pitcher and lasted exactly one week due to a rotator cuff injury. So I left that school, went to my backup as it still had a spot for me, and lived happily ever after. My dad's 401k is still thanking him for my decision.

Ouch

You know what happens when you are running full-speed down the length of the lawn and trip over the edge of the grass, falling face-first into the concrete patio without breaking your fall with any part of your body except your forehead?



Oh boy, did that one leave a mark. I was able to finally calm him down from the hysterical crying by pointing out the hole he made in the ground, which interested him quite a bit, and an episode of "Sesame Street" while I held a bag of ice on his head.

Road rash and a huge goose egg just scream "child abuse" when you take your kid to Dairy Queen for being so brave now doesn't it?

You know what happens when you're just minding your own business outside in the sunshine, looking for rocks to give Mommy?



Look at the return of Blondie with all the time she spends outside. I still have no idea where she gets it from, but I think it suits her.

Don't they realize I am pregnant?

Today I had my consultation with my Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist. You know, the one I was supposed to have last week but mixed up the days. But today I managed to keep my head out of my ass and show up on the right day at the appointed time.

He congratulated me on No. 3 and I joked that I just couldn't stay away from their office. After exchanging pleasantries about the two children he safely ushered into the world, we got down to the details of my cervix and it's incompetence.

He said in the last two years, since the last time I was assuming the position in the stirrups, there has been some new research and recommendations. He said they now take a "wait and see" approach with women who present with shortened cervixes (cervixi?) and don't perform cerclages right away.

Now I know doctors have gone to school for god knows how many years and see hundreds of patients a year, but I strongly disagree with this idea. I can't tell you how many stories I have read about women with IC who go from short cervix to bulging membranes in a matter of days with no symptoms at all. Awesome idea. Let's wait and see if your shitty cervix will hold your not-yet-viable baby in. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. In fact, let's start an office pool on the exact date and hour you end up on hospital bedrest!

But. In my case, because I have had two successful cerclages, he said the choice was up to me. I could wait and see or I could have the cerclage. I went with Door No. 2 because, as I told him, with two kids at home, I don't have the luxury of lying around waiting to watch my cervix shorten and dilate at 20 weeks only to end up flat on my back in the hospital with no one to watch my children as they run naked around the neighborhood with popsicle stains around their mouths and messy hair. He agreed that was the right choice for me. That way the kids can just run naked around the house with popsicle stains around their mouths and messy hair.

So my surgery will be next Tuesday. I am to arrive at 11 a.m., which is all kinds of awesome because I don't have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to have a needle stuffed into my back and a speculum the size of a dinner plate inserted into my girlie parts. But then the nurse gave me the instructions for the pre-op and I heard the words, "No food after midnight, no liquid either."

I'm sorry, what did you just say? I thought you just said "no food after midnight" to a pregnant woman who isn't having her surgery until 1 p.m. That would mean in a best-case scenario, I get to eat an hour afterward, meaning 2 p.m. So no food for 14 hours. Let me repeat that: no food for 14 hours. For the pregnant lady. I wake up starving in the mornings. How in the hell is this going to be any good at all?

Maybe I could convince them to give me a feeding tube when I get there. Or I could just shove a Ranchero Chicken Soft Taco into the IV tube. I bet that would work.

The news he didn't want to hear

As of this weekend, Jack was still blissfully unaware of the news that his mother is with child again. I was trying to wait a few months so as not to incur a daily version of "Is the baby coming today?" for the next six months. But we had been talking about pregnancy and whatnot in front of him, thinking he didn't really know what that meant.

But then people kept asking him if he was going to be a big brother, which would result in him looking at them like they were nuts because DUH, he is already a big brother.

When I first knew I was pregnant, I wanted to feel him out about the situation, so I casually asked him what he thought about babies over lunch one day.

"What baby? Emmie?" he asked.

"No, like a new baby. What do you think of new babies?" I asked.

"I no like babies," he said. Allllrighty then.

Last week, I was telling him about my friend's new baby and he smiled and asked me when the new baby was coming to live at our house. I asked him why he thought a new baby was coming to live at our house and he just smiled some more. This kid is nothing if not perceptive.

So we spilled the news to him this weekend. It was raining and cold, we were stuck inside at the lakehouse where he stared forlornly outside and randomly had tantrums. I mean what better setting to ruin his life?

I told him that I had a secret to tell him, so he of course stopped cold while trying to squirm away from me and roll down a flight of stairs. He was all ears and I told him that Mommy had a baby in her tummy and that it would come out at Christmas time.

He smiled and looked at Josh and then at me and asked, "What Daddy have in his tummy?"

I laughed and said nothing, but then Jack corrected me and said Daddy had food in his tummy. Well, yes, that is technically correct. He then asked if he had a baby in his tummy. Again, I said no and he said he had food in his tummy.

He then asked, "I hit that new baby?"

Well then. Apparently it's not Emmie, it's just babies in general. Can't wait for the great terror campaign of 2009 to begin! This time with experience on which to draw upon!

But then we assured him that NO, he would NOT be hitting the new baby and he smiled. He wanted to look at my stomach and I showed him, but told him he can't see the baby when it's in there. He'll see it when it comes out.

And with that, he was satisfied and ran off to tell Grandma there was a baby in Mommy's tummy. Hopefully he won't start filling random strangers in on my reproductive status, but I think he's grasped the concept.

Can't blame pregnancy brain either

I am sure the doctor would have had many, many positive things to say about my cervix if I had gone to see him yesterday. That would be Wednesday, as in the day of my appointment. Not Thursday, as in today, the day I thought my appointment was.

I discovered this as I was about to walk out the door and checked the appointment card for the time of the appointment. My eyes bugged out of my head when I saw the date was June 3, not June 4. After some swearing (the kids were downstairs with Grandma! No potty-mouth in their presence!) I picked up the phone to call and see what could be done.

The receptionist remarked that they were all wondering where I was yesterday. Well, why didn't you call to check? I mean clearly, this is my fault. But a call would have been helpful, that's all I'm sayin'. The nurse was in a meeting, so I needed to leave a message and wait for her to call back.

Of course I worked myself into A State waiting for the call, so I called her back after an hour and she responded to my apology with a laugh and said, "It's not like you to miss appointments. I almost called you." Why didn't you? Do you people all have phone phobia?

But because they are all kinds of awesome in the antenatal office, they were able to still get me in this afternoon for the NT test portion of the appointment extravaganza. I have to wait to see my doctor until Tuesday morning, but since I had the childcare already here, I was glad I didn't have to waste it.

The nuchal fold measurement, which measures the thickness of the fluid at the back of the embryo's neck, was a solidly average 1.19 cm. Excellent measurement right in the normal range.

On a related note, I have finally given this embryo a nickname. Jack was known as "The Blob" and Emmie was "Girl Baby" but this one is now known as WeeBey. For those not in the know, that's a character's name from "The Wire" and we have watched four complete seasons of "The Wire" during this first trimester. I think naming your embryo after a drug-dealing thug criminal is totally appropriate. I wanted to go with Stringer Bell, another totally smoking-hot drug lord criminal character from the show, but since Wee means "small" and Bey sounds like a shortened version of "baby" it all made sense. So WeeBey it is. Josh just rolls his eyes at me.

So we got a decent look at WeeBey, who was break dancing and wiggling and waving little arms and legs all around. Additionally, it kept arching it's little back, clearly working on it's yoga stretches.

I then went downstairs for the bloodwork, where the tech had to basically milk my finger to get the blood out. After five minutes of massaging my fingertip to no avail, he stuck me again and apologized for the amount of blood that was going to pour forth. And oh boy howdy, did it ever. Two seconds later, he had what he needed and I was out the door.

Then I came home and got sick again. The end.

Not really the end, but that about sums up the rest of the day. I laid on the couch, dying, so my parents took the kids with them so their last memory of Mommy wouldn't be me moaning on the couch. We'll pick them up tomorrow when we go to the lake for the weekend. I am so grateful that between my parents and Josh's parents, I have so much help. The kids adore spending time with them and the grandparents love to hang out with the kids away from Mommy's rules and strict bedtimes. It's a win-win for everyone.

So the cerclage suspense continues until Tuesday morning. News at 11.

Long time, no see, doc

Tomorrow I meet with my maternal fetal medicine specialist for the first time this pregnancy. I do so love my high-risk doctor. I can't thank him enough for helping me stay pregnant with Jack when it all looked so dire. Then he made an easy pregnancy with Emmie possible, well as easy as a pregnancy involving stitches in your cervix can be. There is no way I would even consider the possibility of anyone else performing the cerclage for this pregnancy.

This doctor thinks I am crazy, what with my always asking for quantifiable statistics about cerclage success rates, bedrest outcomes and trying to play "let's make a deal" when it comes to frequency of ultrasounds or how many contractions in an hour sends your ass to labor and delivery. But he can always count on a smile and a smart-ass comment from me. That has to make me his most fun patient, if not the most annoying.

I will get my NT scan, which means a chance to peep at the kid on ultrasound, and then my surgery consult. After checking the length of the ole cervix, I will then pop downstairs for the bloodwork that goes along with the genetic testing we're having done. Now that I am 35 -- duh duh duhhhhhhh Advanced Maternal Age -- we get all the fun stuff.

I'm not expecting any surprises from this appointment. The embryo isn't big/heavy enough to make it's presence known to the cervix yet, so it should be nice and normal. We'll schedule the surgery and have a few laughs about me being a glutton for punishment when it comes to pregnancy and having a needle in my back and then I'll go home. This is so routine that Josh isn't even coming along. He has to woooooork. He's buuuuuuusy. Yeah, yeah. I know. He makes the money and I spend it. (In his defense, I really don't need him to be there. It's not a big deal and I didn't even really ask him if he would come anyway. But I like to push his buttons and the best way to do that is to bitch about his work. Wanna see Josh's blood pressure go off the charts? All I have to do is start whining about how hard my life is because he travels.)

Hopefully tomorrow there will be nothing to report because it was all so boring and routine. Except you all know that's just not possible when things involve me and pregnancy. So perhaps there will be something amusing to share, if nothing else.

Ladies Day doesn't mean Manners Day

I had to get the oil changed in my vehicle today and because I had no one to watch the kids, I dragged them along with me. This was a source of great concern to Jack. What were we doing? Why did we need to "change the car?" Where were we going to do it? Would there be a special treat involved? You know, standard 3-year-old concerns.

I herded them into the car and drove in the general vicinity of where Google Maps told me there was a quick oil change joint in Peoria. I chose this sort of establishment because I am familiar with the concept: you pull up, wait in your car, drive into the little garage compartment, wait in your car some more, pay and leave.

It's all very nice and easy because you don't have to get out of the car. Which means you don't have to unbuckle first child, remove first child from car, carry first child to other side of car, unbuckle second child, help second child climb down, balance first child in one arm while trying to keep grip on second child's arm as he tries to run away in parking lot, wait in waiting area with two children, poke eyes out because two children won't sit still or STOP TOUCHING THINGS, Twitter from cell phone about horrid experience while children grab candy out of pay machine despite not depositing any money, take candy away and listen to children die because of unfairness, ignore dirty looks from other man waiting for his car, take windshield wiper out of first child's mouth, pay bill, pick up first child who is now screaming because you are leaving, drag second child by arm as he refuses to walk normally through parking lot, shove second child into car while he yells about wanting a special treat, watch helplessly as second child climbs into front seat and laughs hysterically, walk first child around to other side of car and strap her writhing body into carseat, threaten second child that if he does not get into his carseat THISINSTANTIWILLNEVERTAKEYOUANYWHEREEVERAGAIN, walk around to other side of car, watch as second child scampers into backseat laughing, tell second child there will be no special treat, strap second child into carseat while he wails about lack of special tret, walk back around car yet again, get in car, bang head on steering wheel, start car, drive home, vowing to never, ever, ever take children anywhere again. Ever.

Not that I would be familiar with any of those events.

After I drove about a mile out of my way, I realized I might have missed the oil change place. I turned around, while being interrogated by Jack about where the "car change" place was, and finally located it. I decided to check the price before committing to the procedure and almost fell over when I found out it was $38. Nothankyouverymuch.

Again, Jack shows grave concern over leaving. I explain it was too expensive and surely Mommy could find a cheaper place than the Mobil chain. Walmart! Walmart has an oil change place. Ooooooh, but you have to get out of the car. Dilemmma: save money or damage sanity and place undue stress on unborn embryo. Decide embryo has six more months to get over it. Josh will be so pleased when I report back that I went to Walmart.

I arrived in the lot and hustled the kids out of car, hauled ass into Walmart only to hear the clerk tell me there are six people waiting in front of me. I crumpled to the ground and wept, but he didn't care. So I dragged the children back to the car in search of something else.

You might be asking yourself at this point why I didn't just go another damn day. Valid question. Because at this point, it became the "principle of the thing." Now I had to get the freaking oil changed and no one was going to stop me. Oh ho no.

I started to drive aimlessly in the direction of the new mall (the old mall is still in existence in Peoria, but since this one was built five years ago, everyone calls it the new mall, although it is no longer new) thinking maybe I would just wander around there and entertain the kids for a while.

Except on the way, I saw a drive-up oil change place! Joy in Mudville! Even Jack was smiling and talking about how we CAN get the car changed!

I pulled up to the bay door and asked if I could please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stay in the car with the kids. The pleasant young man checking me in said it would not be a problem as long as he drove the car into the bay. Noooooo problem.

I jumped into the passenger seat, which sent Jack into a state of panic, and the young man drove it in. Another nice young mechanic was about to get to work on the car when a surly mechanic one bay over yelled at him, "Why is that woman in the car?"

Mechanic 1 looked a little startled and said that I requested it because of the kids. Mechanic 2 FREAKS out on him and yells, "Well if the car starts on fire, she'll never get those kids out of the seats in time. You should know better." Because you read all the time about cars catching on fire during ROUTINE OIL CHANGES.

During this exchange between what I find out is a mere worker (nice Mechanic 1) and his boss (surly Mechanic 2), I rolled down the motorized window, removed my sunglasses and said to Mechanic 2, "Dude, calm down. You don't need to yell at him. I told him I wanted to stay in."

Mechanic 2 then turns his seething anger at the gods of carseats on me.

"You can't be in the car," he said.
"I have stayed in the car hundreds of times for oil changes, I will take my chances," I said.
"I can't let you do that."
"They let you do that at Jiffy Lube."
"Well, this ain't Jiffy Lube."
"I can tell you, I wish it was right about now."
"I sure don't."

Since the oil pan was already open and I was staring down imminent death from spontaneous oil change combustion, I sighed and went through the complete works of child removal from the vehicle. (See: paragraph 3.)

Except there was one more little "F-you" from the universe waiting for me. This oil change joint didn't take American Express. Guess who only had her driver's license, AmEx and $18 in cash with her for a $28 bill? Of course. Because the world hates me.

The manager stared daggers into my tires, willing them to deflate by the power of his mind while I asked nicely if I could leave my license and come back to pay later after my husband got home with a suitable Visa card. They said that would be fine and I was on my merry way.

I returned later in the afternoon with Visa in hand and the guy seemed surprised to see me. I asked him if he really thought I would skip out on the bill and he laughed and said no, but that he would not blame me. He then lowered his voice and said he was sorry about the whole thing. I remarked that his boss was a wee bit crabby and he said he was like that all morning. He rang up the order and asked me for $27. I asked why it was cheaper than what they billed me for in the morning and he shrugged. "They must have forgotten to give you the Ladies Day discount," he said, gesturing to the huge banner hanging outside.

So not only did the bastard ruin my day, he tried to screw me as well. In the end, I saved $3 over what I would have forked over at Walmart but gained some outstanding blog material. It was a wash, I guess.

Random bullet-y goodness

I have a jumble of assorted things for all y'all today.

* My heart almost broke with love over this exchange today:
Jack: "Emmie, come and play with me!"
Emmie: (Smiles) "Gah?"
Jack: "Emmie, be silly with me!"
Emmie: (Gets up and runs after him) "Ack! Ack!"
This is what I dreamed off when we decided to have a second child, the two of them playing together and laughing hysterically while I sit on the couch and rest my eyes in peace. Of course this ended five minutes later with him hip-checking her into the couch and her screaming on the floor, but still. Progress.

* For the first time in six weeks, I was not sick nor did I need a nap today. People, this is huge. Not sick? That can't be. I must be dreaming. I know from past experience that this will not be the case tomorrow, but I also know that this is how I start my climb down from the high point of the pregnancy sickness. One day feeling good, one day back to sick. Then gradually it's less sick days until I realize, "Huh, I haven't been sick in like a week."

* It was so hot today at my in-laws' house that I had to bring the kids inside because they were sweaty messes with beet-red cheeks from the heat. It was only in the low 80s. This does not bode well for the summer. I may or may not have been hot and sweaty as well. We are wimps.

* Josh went back to the office today for the first time in a month. (He was serving an in-house suspension because of fears of swine flu at the office.) I shed tears. How the hell am I supposed to go back to parenting these children by myself all day? Not to mention, it was nice to be able to say, "I'm out of here" at naptime and go amuse myself for an hour. If I do that now, child services comes to visit.

* You know how they tell you never to clean your child's ears with a Q-tip? They aren't kidding. Usually I just try to get the outside part of Jack's ear, buuuuuuut tonight he flinched when I was doing it and there was actual screaming and crying on his part. Then some crying on my part, because I felt so awful. Of course, Josh was standing right there. "You're not supposed to do that." Thanks Captain Obvious, I freaking know that. Jack seems fine now, but I'll check his pillow tonight to make sure the remnants of his ear drum have not leaked out.