In-cyst-ing on it

The follow-up ultrasound for the choroid plexus cyst on WeeBey's little fetus brain was this afternoon and as expected, the cyst is "ahh goo!" For those of you not in the know, that is Emmie-speak for "all gone" and when you say it, you must throw your arms wide open and end with an upswing in your pitch on goo.

Baby brain is all clear, as everything I read and was told by the doctor said it would be. When I say I wasn't worried, I'm not lying. I really wasn't. I was more excited about getting to see the baby again than looking at it's noggin.

I can still say "it's" because I held firm and didn't find out the gender yet again. Josh smugly sat in the corner, probably believing he could see and interpret the genitalia while we were looking at the head.

We got some awesome shots of the face and really clear profile pictures. We also witnessed some amniotic fluid consumption and an epic battle of thumb vs. mouth that ended with a successful insertion after much maneuvering.

No sign of what caused the pesky bleeding incident last week, so we're chalking it up to randomness once and for all. Cervix looked good, no funneling, but they refused to measure it so I don't have any details about length.

That's it, folks. Sorry to waste your time with a boring pregnancy update. But that's all I got today.

For a laugh or two, head over to SnarkyDaddy where he is apparently upset Sony forgot about him and still thinks he knows the sex of WeeBey.

Please help me stop

Josh bought cupcakes to take to work with him this week. Sweet Mandy B's cupcakes, to be specific. If you're not from Chicago, you wouldn't know anything about them, but suffice it to say, they are like crack.

Not one to let annoying customer service hinder my love of cupcakes, I have returned to this bakery time and time again since The Mini Cupcake Debacle, as chronicled on this site two long years ago.

I made Josh buy me an extra one when he made his purchase, just for kicks. I am pregnant, I can indulge. That was Monday. Tuesday, I went to a birthday dinner for a friend and they had Sweet Mandy B's cake for dessert. Wednesday, Josh brought a few leftover cupcakes home with him from his work party and I plucked one from the box and ate it. Tonight, one of the last two cupcakes was calling me forlornly from the kitchen. I had to eat it -- it begged me to.

To sum up: four consecutive days of cake. There is one lonely cupcake left in the box right now. It is sleeping. I see it from where I am sitting. It's all soft and sugary in its purple blanket of frosting. I know with all my heart I will eat it tomorrow.

Please, someone help me. I have an addiction. And I am powerless.

Shutting the hell up now

I swear, I am never EVER again talking about how easy and great and non-eventful my pregnancy is going on the Internet. Because as soon as I do, things devolve quickly into a shitstorm that ends with me in OB Triage at my hospital.

Oh yes, irony found me, despite my trying to hide in the world of problem-free pregnantness. After announcing how awesome and normal and non-risky this third pregnancy has been, I woke up this morning to spotting.

Well then. Payback's a bitch, isn't it Miss Big Mouth?

I called my OB's office and they told me to come right in and then I called Josh and told him the situation and of course, neither one of us really freaked out because hello, we've been down this road a time or 30. I got dressed and drove myself to the hospital, where they were expecting me. With the amount of money my insurance company has funneled into that hospital, they should have a bed on permanent reserve for me, but as luck would have it, they weren't busy anyway.

The joy of hitting triage during the day is that in addition to the resident, I also got to deal with med students! I was so happy! Can you tell? Ugh. Three sets of the same questions later (nurse, med student, resident) we finally got down to business.

An ultrasound showed there's no problem with the placenta, monitoring revealed baby is head-down and shaking it's ass like it just doesn't care, doppler reported no contractions and an exam found my cervix long and closed with the stitch firmly in place.

Diagnosis: we don't know what caused it, but you can go home because you're fine. Also? Pelvic rest for you! Thanks for coming, see you in 14 weeks or so.

I was back home in less than two hours, a new personal best for a visit to Triage. At least they were speedy and didn't feel the need to keep me overnight. Small favors.

My track record stands: three pregnancies, three trips to the hospital at 24 weeks. I am going to go pretend I never brought this up. Stupid woman talking about her stupid good luck on her stupid blog. Grumble, grumble. Also, I swore on Tivo in yesterday's sunshine-and-rainbows-pregnancy post and then crappy stuff happened, so clearly there are no Tivo gods and I should just totally give up all religion, including television.

A viable option

Today marks my 24th week of pregnancy and as any high-risk pregnant woman worth her amniotic fluid knows, this is the magic day when the baby becomes viable. Yesterda,y if I were to have gone into labor, they would have been all "Too bad, so sad, no baby for you," but today they would be all "NICU! Oxygen! Heart monitors!"

I remember hitting this mark with Jack while I was sitting on my ass in the hospital on strict bedrest. With Emmie, I marked 24 weeks with a hospital stay due to the most horrific stomach flu ever. Imagine my surprise when I managed to pass this milestone without so much as glancing at the outside of the hospital this time around.

They say every pregnancy is different, and boy howdy, don't I know it. But knock on plastic and metal, I have had an easy go this time around when it comes to the risky crap. Sure, I was sick as a dog, but when it comes to the cervix, it appears to be behaving itself.

My OB reminded me last week that these are the most critical four weeks of the pregnancy coming up. Nobody wants to experience a NICU stay with a 24-weeker. Or a 25-, 26-, 27-, 28-weeker for that matter. But for now, we can breathe a little easier that we've passed the first critical milestone.

And so help me TIVO, if I turn up with some bizarre ailment that lands me in the hospital this week, I am just going to accept it as a sign I am not fit to be up and around during the 24th week of pregnancy.

In the meantime, I will be here stewing about my 17-pound weight gain and recent loss of the ability to sit up in bed. Despite feeling like I am large and in charge, my OB's ticker tape says I am measuring two weeks behind, so I guess I should shut up and stop complaining.

Jamming at the United Center

I realized last night that all three of my children have now been to a Pearl Jam concert in utero. I told Josh that Pearl Jam only tours when I am pregnant and he said that's not really true, I am just always pregnant. He makes a good point.

Attending a concert surrounded by 21,000 people drinking beer and smoking various substances is a little depressing when you have to be stonecold sober, but that also always makes for good people-watching. Last night's PJ show at the United Center didn't disappoint.

I saw a guy get into a fight with security -- dude, it's a Pearl Jam show and you weren't even sitting on the floor. Calm the hell down. No one's crowd-surfing and I'm sure your flannel shirt was awesome in 1993, but now it's just sad. You deserve to get thrown out for that fashion crime if nothing else.

There was the girl who was so wasted after the show that she upturned a garbage can in the hall and had to be subdued by her boyfriend. Her boyfriend chose to subdue her by placing her in a headlock and dragging her away. When a good samaritan tried to intervene, the girl turned on him and tried to shove him to the floor. Again, it's not a Rage concert young lady. Get a grip.

Then there was the lovely couple sitting next to us from Pennsylvania. The woman was telling Josh how they left their six children (SIX!) at home to come to Chicago for the show. While Josh was chatting with her, the husband looked at my "Pregnant is the new sexy" shirt and conversationally asked if I was pregnant.

"No," I deadpanned, and took a drink of my (non-alcoholic) beer. Because it was in a regular beer cup, he had no idea it was O'Douls. He turned about 10 shades of red and started to say something when I saved him.

"I'm just kidding," I said. "I am totally pregnant. But wow, you should have seen the look on your face!"

Maybe I should have been nicer to the poor guy. He didn't come all the way to the Windy City to be harassed by a pregnant lady. But I just couldn't resist.

Throwdown at the library

For the second day in a row, I ventured out on my own with the two kids in search of a fun and enriching activity. Also, something FREE because, well, you know the economy is still kind of in the shitter and I like to make Josh happy by at least giving off the appearance of staying within my budget.

This morning seemed like a perfect time to try the local library once again. Emmie had never been there before (unless you count her going as a wee infant, which I don't) and Jack had not been there in over year. It's not that I don't like the library, but he just wasn't able to control himself very well and I hated setting him up for failure.

I had high hopes today, thinking he had matured and come a long way from the days of running away from the kids' section, yelling and screaming and generally annoying everyone there for real library business. You know, the people there for the free newspapers and access to online porn.

Oh but some things never change do they?

Today it was Emmie who enjoyed the running away and screaming. Jack, for the most part, sat and looked at books. Which was awesome. Until The International Incident.

I had gone to retrieve the stroller so I could strap Emmie down and prevent her from running through the stacks like a mad woman when Jack came running up to me with The Look on his face. All parents know The Look. It's the one that they give you when they've done something wrong and don't know any better than to try and hide it from you. In the distance, I hear plaintive wailing.

"What did you do?" I asked suspiciously.

"Nofing! (Nothing) he said.

I asked again what happened in the kids' room.

"Mommy, I just hit that big boy with a book," he crowed with delight.

My blood pressure skyrocketed and I am quite sure I would have been considered a candidate for pre-eclampsia in that moment considering what the reading might have been and I hauled him over to the room where I heard the crying.

I entered to find an elderly Asian man shooting me daggers, yelling in what I can only assume was Chinese, a boy about Jack's age looking scared and a boy about 6, holding his had over his eye and crying.

"Did you hit him? Did he hit you?" I asked them both, trying to get the story out of them. Jack told me proudly, "Yes, Mommy, I threw a book and I hit that big boy." The boy kept crying, holding his eye, and nodded in the affirmative. The grandfather kept yelling in Chinese.

I really wanted him to stop yelling at me in a foreign language because I was getting flustered and seriously dude, I get it, you're pissed at my kid. But let's calm down a little here. As far as I could tell, no blood had been shed so I was pretty sure no one lost an eye.

After forcing an apology out of Jack, I announced we were leaving, which was met with great dissatisfaction in the SnarkyFamily camp. As we turned to leave, the grandfather was still freaking yelling in Chinese. OK, OK. I get it. Just shut your pie hole already.

Again, I left in defeat. Library, you win. I won't be back anytime soon.

Painting panic

I have never been accused of being laid-back when it comes to the condition of my home. We spent a lot of time and money rehabbing this house when we moved in. The hardships I endured for this damn kitchen are numerous -- I lived without a stove and had only a college dorm fridge for FIVE MONTHS when we ripped the first floor apart. Not to mention, I was on strict bedrest at the time and wasn't allowed to leave the house to eat a proper meal in a civilized setting.

And I like to think we have grown-up taste with grown-up furnishings, despite having two children in the house. Our dining room table, at which we eat all of our meals, is made of dark wood. The chairs are covered with a light tan suede-like surface. The floors are hardwood. The furniture is microsuede and in surprisingly good condition.

But keeping things this way requires a certain amount of vigilance on my part. The dining room is gated off and the kids are only allowed in during mealtimes or when we exit or enter the house from our parking spot. It's not a playroom, it's for eating and looking nice. The kitchen isn't very much fun for them, other than one cabinet I let them have free reign over. The living room has an ottoman filled with toys, but the main playroom is downstairs since we converted the house last summer.

One of the reasons we are able to keep it looking pretty good is that I do not allow craft projects in the house. There, I have said it. I am the worst mother ever because I prize my crayon-free walls over my children's creativity. But you know what? They take art classes where they can paint all over the room and I let them play with sidewalk chalk whenever they want. Also? Magnadoodles are totally awesome and totally mess-free -- you just erase it and start over! And I do let them have the Color Wonder markers downstairs because while they say they don't leave marks except on the special paper, I heard they DO leave marks on leather and suede. So they're banished to the downstairs, but are definitely allowed in the house.

A few weeks ago, I gave them an oversized pad of paper and some crayons to go crazy with downstairs on the rug. I figured with supervision, all would be fine. Except Jack got a little aggressive with his abstract art and scribbled through the paper. Guess what -- green crayon will indeed leave a mark on cream carpeting. I hyperventilated, took the crayons away immediately and was able to get the green out by blotting. But I was scarred. Also, vindicated because I knew I should never have allowed crayons down there in the first place.

But desperate times called for desperate measures this morning. It rained and was generally gross outside and there was no way anyone was going to be excited about playing inside the house with Mommy for more than an hour. So I asked Jack if he wanted to go to Pump It Up and he practically flew the door to get his shoes on.

I arrived at the building housing the empire of bounce houses and couldn't see the forest for the trees. There were nannies and mothers and kids EVERYWHERE. They came in twos and threes and gaggles. I did a drive-by and the entire lobby was full of kids waiting to get their jump on, so many there was an overflow group waiting in line outside.

Note to self: next time it rains, just go to the damn mall because everybody and their brother is going to head for Pump It Up. After profusely apologizing to Jack for not being able to go, I asked him if we could just do something else. He skeptically asked me what could POSSIBLY be as much fun as jumping around like a maniac, it popped into my head that stashed away in the bowels of the closet was a set of fingerpaints someone had given Jack for a birthday gift like two years ago. A gift that caused me to question that person -- a mother no less -- and her sanity. I mean who lets kids FINGERPAINT in their house?

So I offered up the fingerpaints as my plea agreement and he accepted it with excitement. OK! Let's take a deep breath and do it. I briefly considered having them do it outside on the driveway, but figured that would be more trouble than it was worth when it came to trying to keep Emmie out of trouble. Instead I bit the bullet and draped a sheet over the dining room table and stripped Emmie down to her diaper, covering her high chair with a large piece of paper.

I poured the paints into an old egg carton -- you'd think I was Martha Stewart with that little trick -- and let them go crazy. Jack took fingerpainting to mean handpainting and proceeded to mush both hands in the paint and smear them around. What the hell did I pay preschool tuition for last year? The kid doesn't even know how to fingerpaint. Emmie was much more demure, using just the tips of her petite fingers and not mixing any paint colors. She likes her primary colors pure, thankyouverymuch.

I managed to not lose my shit and after they tired of craft time, quickly washed everybody up and surveyed the damages. The room was fine. The table was fine. The chair cushions were fine. The kids were fine. I might just be able to do this again. Not anytime soon, but again, definitely.


It's yellow, but it sure doesn't look like any egg I have ever seen...


I shall use my finger now, but I am not content with that as my medium.


Not exactly what you think of when you hear "nude painting" now is it?


I take my art verrry seriously.


Go ahead, pull my finger. I know it's green, just do it...


This is from my Impressionist period. It's going to be worth millions.


The masters, hard at work.

Food for thought

This has never been mistaken for a food blog in the past, I mean come on, the closest I come to discussing culinary delights is professing my love for Dairy Queen blizzards and mac and cheese. Oh and fish sticks! It wouldn't be a pregnancy around here without mac and cheese and fish sticks.

But today I really outdid myself. I was up and out of the house, bound for the farmer's market, with both kids by 8:15 a.m. August is the best time of year to hit the market and we try to meet friends for a little shopping and play time there as often as we can.

This farmer's market is Kid Central, however, which makes it easy to roam the tents and ignore your own whining, bickering children. Today Jack was withholding Emmie's toy cell phone from her reach and she in turn was screaming and kicking him. At least she's fighting back now, but in public it causes people to stare.

I confiscated the toy and told her to stop kicking her brother and threatened everyone that I would turn the stroller around THIS INSTANT if they couldn't get along. I also informed them there would be no smoothie unless everyone got his or her shit together. That shut everyone up for a few minutes and I was able to shop in peace before our playdate.

Josh and I enjoyed the bounty of the market for dinner this evening. Wee potatoes of all colors and sizes, roasted with olive oil and spices. Corn on the cob so sweet we didn't even need butter. Fresh baguette with tomato, basil and mozzarella cheese drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My absolute favorite summertime meal.

We kept it all for ourselves because the beauty of it would have been wasted on the children, but they'll probably get some leftovers tomorrow. Unless I eat them all for lunch. Because I am an unselfish mother.

What are you all eating for dinner during these harvest times?

That would explain it

For the last week or so, Emily has been, to put it mildly, a total cranky-butt. She was whiny and clingy, drooling like a dog and constantly had her fingers in her mouth. Not the best hygiene, but what can you do with an 18-month-old who won't stop screaming if she takes her fingers out of her mouth? At least it kept her quiet for a few minutes.

Trying to look in her mouth was like trying to pry open a clamshell. She would clamp down and shake her head from side to side while trying to slide out of my grasp and run away. It was really fun for everyone involved.

Seeing as she only has four teeth -- two top front, two bottom front -- I figured I would see little white shark teeth any day. Except that never happened. It was decidedly annoying.

Finally this weekend I sat on her legs and pinned her arms down (I kid! I actually tickled her! Nothing to see here child social workers, go away) and somehow got my fingers into her mouth and past her front line of defense. To my surprise, I felt one of those sharp little bastards in the BACK of her mouth. What the hell? Aren't toddlers supposed to get teeth starting in the front and move their way back toward the molars? I felt around to the other side of her mouth and was greeted by two more pointy friends, one on the top and one on the bottom,again towards the back.

As she bit down on my finger and ground my poor digit to a pulp, I laughed and asked her why she didn't just tell us she was getting three teeth. Jack was really confused and said, "Mommy, she can't even talk yet. She could not tell us any-fwing!"

Thank you, Jack. Clearly I need to teach him the finer points of sarcasm in conversational English. If he's going to survive in this family, he's going to need to get up to speed quickly.

That makes a grand total of seven teeth for Emmie and she hadn't gotten any for the last four months. At this rate, she's going to be losing baby teeth before she gets them all in her mouth.

Taking a knee

Poor Jack and his skinned, scraped, contused, oozing knees. The kid is wearing a huge Band-aid on each knee and is now deathly afraid of removing said Band-aids.

Last night at bathtime, we told him we had to take them off because we wanted his war wounds to get a little circulation, and besides, wet Band-aids are just disgusting. So I told Josh to take them off while I directed my mother-in-law on what bandages and Neosporin products we needed her to grab from the drugstore.

I heard a blood-curdling scream and crying from the bathroom as I sent her on the emergency first aid run, and I came in to see Josh looking pale and pained and Jack sobbing and standing up dripping water everywhere. I asked what happened and Josh said when he pulled the Band-aid off, he pulled some skin with it.

Well then. I understood the expressions on everyone's face and tried to reassure Josh it wasn't his fault and calm Jack down and reassure him that pulling the other Band-aid off his other leg wasn't going to hurt. I lied to his face, but there was nothing else to be done. I instructed Josh to just grab it and pull quickly, but he balked, understandably, because he didn't want to traumatize either himself or Jack again. But I insisted and held on to a wet Jack while he pulled.

The screaming ensued again, although I suspect it was more fear than pain that time. We got him out of the tub and dried him off as he sniffled and moaned and clung to me like I was his only hope in the world. Then Grandma arrived home with the supplies, including some antiseptic spray.

I would like to point out it was antiseptic spray that clearly stated on the label contained NUMBING ingredients. I am pretty sure the fine print on the box instructs people to drink a bottle of bourbon before using the spray because that was about the only way it was numbing anything. Instead, I sprayed it on his knees and Jack jumped a foot off the counter and started screaming, "It hurts, Mommy. It's huuuuurts, Mommy." Mother of the Year material for sure, folks.

We immediately applied the Neosporin with pain relief and that must have actually CONTAINED pain relief because he stopped screaming and started whimpering instead. After applying a Band-aid the size of Texas to each of his kneecaps, we were able to calm him down. He kept requesting "medicine in my mouth" so we gave him some Motrin and tucked him into bed.

Today his wounds were oozing and weeping all day (hope you weren't enjoying your breakfast just now) and when it was time to change the Band-aids before bed, I assured him we wouldn't use the spray again. No no, we would use hydrogen peroxide!

As a child, I had plenty of scrapes like this and my father's cure-all for everything was to bathe the injury in peroxide. I once put a hole almost completely through my middle finger when it was caught under a big-wheel and my dad tried to just pour peroxide on it. I ended up needing stitches and still have a scar. So my background told me to go with what I knew in this situation.

Jack sat on the bathroom counter as Josh held his legs over the sink and I commenced with the pouring. For the first 10 seconds, Jack was fascinated by the bubbling. And then the pain set in. And the screaming started. I am pretty sure he now has PTSD when it comes to me coming anywhere near his knees. But again, we smeared on the Neosporin and slapped on a Band-aid and all was well.

Unfortunately, we will need to keep doing this little song and dance each night until it scabs over. And they say motherhood isn't glamorous...

Single-tricycle crash injures one

Peoria - A single-tricycle crash at Bicycle Safety Town this morning resulted in the injury of a young child and caused traffic backups of over three minutes on the mini streets. Onlookers described the crash as "horrific" and asked where the hell the mother was when this happened. The mother is being questioned, but early reports indicate she is blaming poor road conditions for the crash. She did not witness the accident, but said she turned around from tending to her other child as soon as she heard the screaming and crying behind her.

The boy, 3, of Chicago was listed in stable condition. His injuries included two scraped knees, an elbow and fingers. The brand-new Thomas the Tank Engine helmet he wore may have saved his life.

Witnesses said the boy did not have brakes on his tricycle and had never ridden it on anything but a flat surface prior to the incident. He was unfamiliar with the terrain, which might have contributed to the crash. Authorities said he did not appear to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol, although preliminary tests revealed he was served several glasses of milk before getting behind the wheel. Complete toxicology results will not be available for 10 days.

"One minute he was riding up the hill with a huge smile on his face yelling, 'I'm doing it! I'm doing it!' and the next he was careening down the slope with a look of terror on his face," said one witness.

Several mothers picnicking nearby rushed to extricate the victim from the wreckage and offered first aid. The boy's mother was spotted quickly walking to the scene, dragging a young girl by the arm and begging the child to walk faster as she could not lift her due to pregnancy complications. The boy's grandmother was on the scene within seconds and administered kisses and hugs. Several witnesses donated water, Bactine, bandages and feel-good animal cookies while the mother assessed the damage.

Onlookers are questioning the mother's fitness as a parent after she was spotted snapping photos of her injured child. She said "I needed them, you know, for material for my blawwwg." It is not known if she will face charges of poor taste at this time.

The boy was resting comfortably at home after the accident, although family members said he was moaning in pain while watching "Dora the Explorer" videos on the couch. His injuries were made worse later that evening when his father ripped part of his skin off when removing a Band-aid at bathtime. The use of antiseptic spray then caused the boy to jump off the bathroom counter and scream in pain, although a large Band-aid and some numbing gel appear to have soothed the situation.


The victim, minutes before the crash.


The crash scene, note the slope and curve at the bottom.


The victim, immediately after the crash.


Injuries were not life-threatening, but the wounds bled profusely.


Despite his injuries, the victim insisted on driving himself home.


Minutes later, the victim acted as if nothing had happened. He is being checked for amnesia.

Big love

The children had to dress up today and I used this opportunity to snap a little sibling picture. When did they get so big?



In other news, I am also getting big. I am now 22 weeks along and while I have all the energy in the world, I also feel like I am as large as the world. I also forget that I am far enough along that I should not even look at my regular clothes and try to wear pre-pregnancy items and then collapse in a little heap on the floor crying because nothing fits.

Case in point: this weekend it was 7,285 degrees and we went to Lollapalooza. You know, an OUTDOOR music festival. In the outdoors. Where it was 7,285 degrees. I was trying to be cute and thought a little skirt and tank top combo would look fabulous. Fabulous about five months ago, yes. Now? I thought the skirt was way too tight, the tank was stretching the limits of acceptable and I wondered why I even tried to be cute.

I asked Josh what he thought of my outfit and he paused for a second, then pronounced it fine. But if it was really fine, then why did he pause? Clearly it was hideous and five kinds of awful. He tried to assure me that no, it was fine, but I was already stripping it off and bitching about how disgusting I looked. In the end, I wore a pair of maternity capris and a T-shirt and managed to pass for somewhat stylish.

This is just one facet of The Crazy that takes over when I am pregnant. For some reason, I refuse to accept that I should just stick to actual maternity clothes, instead engaging in some battle of bizarre wills with my regular clothes. I implore them to fit, they don't because I can't button them over the belly, and then I get pissed because they don't fit.

And I wonder why my husband is telling the interwebs he has Prepartum Depression...

Are you trying to break up with me?

Naptime is ending our relationship. I am devastated. I thought Naptime was The One. And now, I think it's over. I spend my afternoons sobbing, thinking about what we had. How great things were. But I realize now, I took Naptime for granted.

I am not ready for this. I love Naptime. I thought Naptime would always be there for me. I have gone to great lengths to make this relationship work: tip-toeing around because Naptime demanded quiet, not seeing other people during Naptime, quitting all my activities to cater to the needs of Naptime. And now Naptime is dropping me like a bitch.

Over the last few weeks Jack has slowly stopped napping a few days a week. It started innocently enough with a day here or there. That I could handle because I chalked it up as an anomaly. But now it's every third day or so. And it is killing me.

Naptime is the two hours during the day that I get to sit down, eat something without a little person asking for either some of what I am having or to get up and get them something of their own. I can pee without an audience or seeing little fingers waggling at me from under the door accompanied by a screeching wail. I can sit on the couch and screw around online. Well, clearly I do that when the kids ARE awake, but during naptime I can do it without trying to shield the laptop from keyboard-destroying fingers.

I vowed naps would continue on for the duration of the summer, come hell or high water. Once Jack starts all-day preschool in the fall, he can run ragged for 12 hours for all I care because I won't have to deal with all 12 hours of it. But during the summer -- the summer I am pregnant and need all the rest and sanity I can get -- Jack and Emmie will nap at the same time each and every day. And if they don't want to nap, they can sit in their rooms and talk to the walls for all I care. But I don't want to see anybody's face -- no matter how cute it might be -- between the hours of 1 and 3 p.m.

Today's nightmare "nap" included multiple trips to the potty, rousing renditions of "The ABCs" and "Old MacDonald" and a straight hour of him screaming "Mommy, come in" at the top of his lungs. That little trick woke his sister prematurely, which resulted in me losing my mind because now I had two children awake where there should have been none.

It's not fair. I can change! I can go earlier. Or later. Anything Naptime needs. Please, don't leave me. I need you, Naptime. I can't live without you.

We are so entering this contest

I was flipping through the channels tonight when I came across "Toddlers and Tiaras" and I might have audibly squee-d and caused Josh to panic and ask what in the hell was wrong with me. But HONEY, my god, you just can't look away from something like this.

For those not in the know, this is a TLC reality show about little girls in beauty pageants. And it's a total trainwreck. All the moms are overweight, southern and pushy. All the little girls appear to have been brainwashed and/or drugged into pretending this is what they want to spend their weekend doing instead of, oh, soccer or tea parties or going to the zoo.

These girls, average age of 6, wear more makeup in one sitting than I wear cumulatively over an entire year. We're talking little girls wearing false teeth with big, strike that, HUGE, hair and high heels.

As I was watching with breathless anticipation wondering if the little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl or the other little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl would win the big prize, Josh became annoyed and told me I was only supporting this lifestyle with my choice of viewing. But Josh! They would show this whether I watched or not -- it's on cable! Besides, we're so not a Nielsen family so it's not like anyone even knows we're watching. Well, except for the whole Internet. But that's totally beside the point.

So I came up with the greatest idea EVER. I want to enter Emmie in one of these contests, but only one that has the TLC cameras following along. Then I will show up with her in a T-shirt and shorts, jelly on her face and her hair in the normal state of disarray. Her talent act will consist of her throwing herself on the stage in a tantrum -- that's truly talent right there. For formal wear, she can wear a little sundress complimented by the bruises that line both of her legs from knee to ankle.

Can you imagine the looks on the other moms' faces? It would be worth any amount of moneny I would have to pay as an entry fee. Plus everyone would think I was hilarious when I stood behind the other moms, imitating them pantomiming all their daughter's dance moves. Come to think of it, this could be an entire reality show in its own right. I am totally calling Sacha Baron Cohen to pitch this idea to him.

Blackjack

Here I am at 21 weeks pregnant and no one has even offered to double down. Disappointing.

Someone asked in the comments recently when you would see some belly shots. I am really not in the habit of showing my pregnant belly for all to see on the Internet. Well, at least not WHILE pregnant. I usually show them off afterward as part of a baby slideshow.

I did not, however, have any problem baring said belly to the patrons of the Kohler Waters Spa this weekend when Josh and I celebrated five years of marital bliss by lying around a pool and hot tub and getting massages. And all the poor people also lying around the pool and hot tub got an eyeful of a 21-week pregnant belly. Come to think of it, they did all clear out rather quickly...

But I jest. I can't complain at all about my appearance thus far. I have a tiny little belly bump and if you see me from behind, you wouldn't know I was pregnant. Personally, I'm not sure the belly bump is actually big enough to convince people I am, indeed, pregnant and not just fat. Josh rolled his eyes and assured me you could tell, especially in my swimsuit.

So we had a lovely time. Well, except for the absolute freak-out I had during and after my maassage. I had originally booked a regular massage, thinking I was still small enough to comfortably lie on my stomach. And I figured the "prenatal massage," which involves being propped on your side by pillows, just wouldn't be very comfortable. If I was paying $120 for 50 minutes (yes, it was an insanely expensive massage) I was damn well going to enjoy it to the fullest.

Except I laid down on the table and WeeBey started to kick. And kick. And kick some more. And then must have given up on trying to alert me to the fact it was NOT happy with my position because it just stopped kicking.

And when the kicking ceased, my worry began. I started freaking out that I was somehow cutting off circulation from the placenta to the baby and was slowly strangling it. You would think this was my first pregnancy with the irrational ridiculousness playing out in my mind. I was counting the seconds until it was time to flip to my back.

Once on my back, I started an internal dialogue with the baby that went like this: "Just kick me so I know you're OK. One kick. Now would be good. Hello? Kick? Anyone?" Repeat for the rest of the massage. It made for a really relaxing experience.

Of course, WeeBey is a big lover of the afternoon siestas and had no reason to kick me during its normal naptime. Even so, I continued freaking out through the rest of the massage and into the relaxation portion of the afternoon. I was slugging down cold water like it was going out of style, trying to incite some movement. I went in the cold pool, I went in the hot tub. Nothing.

Once we drove home to Chicago, I sat down on the couch and put my feet up. And right on schedule at 8:30 p.m., WeeBey kicked into gear and spent the rest of the night making its presence known. I finally relaxed.

Moral of the story: don't be an asshole and try to relax when you're pregnant. It will only cause you undue stress. Well, unless you get the special prenatal massage with the pillows. Then you will probably be able to relax, but your massage will probably be shitty. So just get your massage after you deliver. Because then you can also drink the mimosas.

Look, pictures!

We took the kids for some pro-fesh-ional pictures recently and finally got the online proofs.

First, let me say that Emmie acted the EXACT same at her 18-month photo shoot like Jack did at his. That is to say, she cried and ran around and generally acted like we were trying to torture her by asking her to smile. Then she got happy at the end and we got two decent shots.

Jack, on the other hand, totally hammed it up and went all Zoolander on our asses. We had to drag him away from the camera when it was Emmie's turn.

The quality isn't the best, but you get the idea.