Picture-perfect

Remember a few weeks ago when Jack fell on the playground and gave himself a black eye? The day before school pictures were set to be taken?

We got the pictures back today. I introduce to you, my son, the scarred one. I'm not sure which I think is more awesome: the look on his face or the black eye. I don't think we're going to have them retaken; we'll look back at this shot someday and remember it fondly.

Pumpkin fun

As in years past, I was once again solely in charge of the pumpkin carving at Chez Snarky. I told Josh recently he only wants to benefit from holidays, not participate in them. Case in point: he doesn't carve pumpkins, but he eats all the kids' trick-or-treat candy. He doesn't help put up the Christmas tree, but he damn sure wants the presents under it.

But whatever. I like to do this kind of stuff and someone needs to make memories for these children, damn it, so I take on that role. Josh scoffs and says they're too little to remember, but someday when Jack reminds him that daddy painted outside instead of helping him carve a pumpkin the year before he turned 4, I can say I told you so. And that's one of my very favorite sayings.

But today was pumpkin day and everybody had a grand time. In previous years, Jack didn't want anything to do with touching the innards of the gourd and there was no way I was letting him anywhere near a knife. But this year he attacked the task with great gusto and Emmie got into the act as well. I still didn't let him near the knife, but apparently it was myself I should have worried about when it came to that.

Damn that $5 pumpkin carving kit from Walgreens. There I was, sawing along on pumpkin No. 1 when out of nowhere the stupid thing breaks off from the handle and tears across my fingers. There wasn't any frost on the pumpkin tonight, but there was sure a lot of blood on it. Jack asked why Mommy yelled and I said it was nothing, quickly wiping the evidence away with multiple paper towels.

I was carving out the mouth/teeth portion of his pumpkin at the time, so now I am worried there was some weird vampire thing going on and I will be the subject of the next installment of the Twilight series.

So anyway, here's the photographic evidence of Pumpkin Carving 2009, Now With Spurting Blood.


Mommy, this is fun! Can I have the knife now?


This is squishy. I am going to throw it at my brother and see what happens.


It doesn't look nearly as bad as it was. I could have bled out right there in the dining room. Seriously.


Hey why are we outside in the dark? And no, we won't smile. We're going to egg the house later, so watch out.

Belly up to the bar

My daughter -- my formerly laid-back, easy-going, eat-anything daughter -- has started to assert her will. She even had her first timeout recently, something her brother had gotten three months earlier than she did. Of course, it was for hitting. She learns by example and he's certainly set a fine one when it comes to violence.

This new independence is really testing my patience when it comes to mealtimes. Emmie has decided she no longer likes anything. This is the girl who used to happily eat Indian food and salmon and all kinds of veggies and fruit. Now, she looks at the plate, takes one bite of whatever it is, picks it up, places it precariously on the edge of her tray and starts saying, "Nooo. Nooo. Bar! Bar!"

If you don't give her highness a cereal bar, and I mean give it to her rightthissecondorIwillkillyou, then you run the risk of The Tantrum. The Tantrum is not to be trifled with. It starts with screaming, progresses to turning beet red, really gets going with a rash breaking out all over her face and winds up with tears streaming down her face. I react to this with great diplomacy, telling her I feel bad for her, but that she has to eat her sandwich before she can have a bar. This news is met with great enthusiasm, as you can imagine.

This is repeated three times a day. She refuses to eat, I withhold the bar until she does, The Tantrum rears its ugly head and she ends up having to leave the table because she can't keep her shit together. Then I feel bad, so I give in and give her the damn bar and she smiles and screams, "OH WOW!" and all is well with the world. Until the next meal, when we lather, rinse and repeat.

Seeing as I have been through this before with Jack, I remembered the sage advice of Ms. Ellyn Satter, author of "Getting Your Child to Eat, But Not Too Much," and launched a new offensive yesterday. Emmie gets all of her meal, including the damn cereal bar, presented on her plate at once. She chooses what to eat and in which order and I try not to let my eyelid twitch when she eats the bar and nothing else.

I kid just a little about that last part, because she has indeed started eating better. She does eat the bar first, but she also goes back and eats some sandwich and some fruits and veggies. So apparently, she likes to control the situation. But so do I. So this is a meeting of the minds. And because I have also done that before, I know better than to challenge an almost 2-year-old. They win every time. Hands down.

So we're trying this for now. If you have any better advice, please do share.

Lame, but cute

I don't have the energy to post anything of substance tonight because I spent three hours painting Emmie's new bedroom and then I went out to dinner with my friends. Let me be the first to tell you that I overdid it and my body is not pleased with me. I told Josh I am retired from painting. He said until tomorrow. He's so concerned.

In place of witty blogging, here's a video of Jack singing a cute seasonal song he learned at school.

Pair of threes

Tomorrow marks my 33rd week of gestating this child and true to my word, I told people I would be so over it by now and I am. Don't get me wrong -- I am not asking for a NICU baby and I don't want to be in labor in any way, shape or form -- but this is the point where I throw up the white flag and cry for amnesty.

I can't bend over, from the waist or at the knees, making toy clean-up either nonexistent or the domain of Josh. Because you know my two children ain't doing shit when I announce it's time to clean up and start singing that annoying Barney song. Emmie thinks that's the cue to start taking more toys out of the toybox and Jack starts protesting he's too tired to pick up toys. Oh yeah? Well let me know anytime you want to start waking up later than 5 a.m., buddy. Until then, get your ass in gear and pick up those legoes.

The exhaustion has also returned to first-trimester levels. For a few days I was concerned I might be narcoleptic, but then I remembered I am 33 weeks pregnant and I get up at 5 a.m. every day and I chase a toddler and preschooler and I go to bed every night at 11 p.m. I would be falling asleep even if I wasn't pregnant. So when I find myself drooling on the couch cushions with the kids sticking their faces in my face asking, "Mommy? Mommy, are you sleeping?" and poking me in the eye, I don't feel so bad. It's not like I am leaving them unattended -- I am just resting my eyes for a few minutes.

Then there's the general crabassiness of just being fat and sick of my clothes and wishing I could just give up my damn pride and wear yoga pants all day, every day. Because seriously, when I change into yoga pants at night after the kids go to bed, I want to weep with joy over how comfortable I am. Instead, I soldier on, wearing uncomfortable, yet stylish, maternity jeans so the other moms at school pickup don't judge me.

Additionally, my remodeling is STILL ongoing and making me crazy because it looks like a tornado hit our storage area and deposited all our crap all over the house. Case in point: our bedroom contains a set of shelves that came with our cabinets, but that we elected not to install because we went with a lazy susan instead. The shelves are sitting on top of our snowboards. Because clearly, we're going to use our freaking snowboards in the next few weeks. You know, while I am pregnant. So while the shelves and the snowboards take up valuable real estate in the bedroom, the bassinet is sitting in the dining room. Right between the dining room table, where the kids fling food around like it's confetti, and the back door, where we track in who knows how much dirt and grime. I'm sure the new baby won't mind some squash mixed with drywall dust on its mattress.

Clearly I am the poster child for a serene pregnancy. I know you are all jealous and want to pop three kids of your own out. I make it look so easy don't I?

In sickness and in health

Most people associate the phrase "in sickness and in health" with marriage vows, but I assure you, it is much more applicable to your relationship with your children. If your spouse gets sick, well that blows, but it doesn't suck the soul out of your heart and cause sleep deprivation the likes of which has only been used as a torture device by the CIA.

When your spouse gets sick, you feel kind of bad and then get really scared you're going to get it next and then finally are just all kinds of annoyed because HELLO, it's a sore throat, deal. But when your young children get sick, they neeeeeed you. In the middle of the night. Multiple times. And when both your children get sick at the same time? You might as well just camp out in the hallway because you're not getting any sleep in your own bed, that's for sure.

Last night Jack went to sleep at his normal time with a bit of a cough. He quieted down pretty quickly, so I figured he would be fine. Emmie went to bed at her normal time with nothing but a few sneezing fits throughout the day. Emmie sneezing repeatedly can only mean one thing and it's that she's getting sick. I tried to pretend it was just construction dust and ignored it. She awoke screaming at the top of her lungs at 8:40 p.m. For a kid who has been sleeping through the night for almost a year now, that was not a welcome deviation from the norm.

She didn't have a fever, but she was covered in snot and generally unhappy about life. We dosed her up with Motrin and Josh rocked her for a few minutes. She protested when he put her back in her crib, but she was conked out in a few minutes.

Predicting doom to Josh, I should have gone to bed right then. But I didn't. I stayed up voting for myself in the "Best Mommy Blog" contest and painting baseboards for the new bedroom. Josh shooed me to bed at 11 p.m. and the next thing I knew, I was awoken by a cat coughing up a hairball three rooms away.

Except we don't have cats anymore. I struggled to place the sound coming out of the monitor and realized it was Jack, hacking up a lung. This continued for several minutes, so I got up and got him some water to see if that would help. The time read 1:37 a.m. on my clock. Awesome. Jack, surprisingly, wasn't woken by his lungs exiting his body. So I woke him up to give him some water and Motrin and he promptly went back to sleep. And back to coughing.

He coughed non-stop for the next four hours. He coughed until he woke up for the day at 4:40 a.m. Who voluntarily gets up before 5 a.m.? How is this child even related to me? And more importantly, what did I ever do to deserve this sleep deprivation? Because when Jack wakes up at 4:40 a.m., so does Mommy.

In the meantime, Sleeping Beauty (aka Josh) hadn't missed a single wink and was snoring on his side of the bed, buried under the covers. I have never been more annoyed by him as much as I was at that moment. Here I was working on about two hours of sleep, all stolen in 15-minute increments when Jack's coughing slowed down, and now I was going to be awake for the day at 4:45 a.m.

Emmie wanted to get the band back together, so she joined the fun at 5:15 a.m. when I first heard her playing with the crib soother. I bit my own lip to stifle the scream coming out of my mouth and turned the monitors down a bit. Josh thinks I keep them at "jet-engine level" anyway, so turning them down just made the yelling quieter, it didn't silence it completely.

I laid there listening to the singing/coughing from Jack and the whining/lullabye music from Emmie for a little while and when Emmie went from whining to screaming at 6 a.m., I snapped.

"JOSH," I hissed. "I can't. I just can't. I know you have to work but you have to get up with them. I haven't slept all night. Literally, all night. I am pregnant. I am exhausted. I. Can't. Do. It."

He asked me what I wanted him to do and I cried in exasperation that I didn't care and I just wanted to sleep for an hour. Sixty measly minutes. I grabbed a pillow, stuffed it over my head, and found a comfortable position for my fat, pregnant ass. I don't know what he did or how he did it, but I woke up an hour later when he brought a happy Emmie in to our bedroom, joyfully yelling, "Momma! Momma!"

Jack didn't have a fever, so I sent him off to school. That's where he got this damn cough of doom anyway, so they could deal with it. I think the lack of sleep finally got to him, however, because he finally took a nap at school. I think his teacher almost fell over when she saw he really went to sleep, but he did. He came out to the car a little dazed, and cried that he wasn't feeling well, but perked up once we got home and he had a snack.

Emmie spent the day plowing through a box of Kleenex, clinging to me and generally acting like someone who will be seeing the doctor for an ear check in about two days if this keeps up. After he ultra-early wakeup, she took an awesome (insert eye-roll here) one-hour nap and woke up supremely cranky. Because she was sick, I let her have a cereal bar at each meal, therefor negating all the progress we have made in just saying no to cereal bars in the last two days. I am a sucker.

I spent the day wondering if it was naptime yet and trying to peel Emmie off my leg so I could use the bathroom alone. When I left her with my sister-in-law so I could run to Home Depot and pick Jack up from school, I think my ear drum ruptured from the screams she emitted. Thank goodness for my sister-in-law because thanks to her playing with the kids, I got to take a short power nap and woke up feeling slightly less like death was near.

I am guessing tonight is going to be much like last night and I am prepared to play the pregnancy card if I have to. Josh is working from home tomorrow and he is so doing the early-morning duty. My sanity depends on it.

In plane sight

In the last week Emmie has become obsessed with airplanes. I am pretty sure if she was around during WWII she would have been hired immediately as a trained spotter, even at the young age of 21 months. This kid can spot planes farther away than air traffic control at O'Hare.

Living in the city, we usually end up under the flight path for arriving planes a few days each week. Which gives her ample opportunity to practice scaring the living shit out of me by screaming, "A-pay! A-pay! A-PAAAAY!" at the top of her lungs while I am driving. My apologies to the driver I almost sideswiped on Fullerton Avenue today, please know I did not expect to have my daughter scream "A-pay" while I was sipping a hot chocolate, causing me to burn the hell out of my mouth and veer slightly into your lane. I know, I know, no drinking and driving. I get it now.

I also learned this afternoon that you can see the airplanes from our dining room windows. One minute I am watching Emmie eat some mac-n-cheese and the next, she's flinging her fork skyward and excitedly pointing out the window screaming, "A-pay!" at the top of her lungs. I didn't believe her, so I had to look, and sure as celebrities name their babies weird things like Sparrow, there was an airplane. She's got a knack, this one.

After it was out of sight, she returned to eating, looked at me with desperation on her face, and lamented, "A-pay, ahh goo." Yes, I know, airplane all gone. I am so sorry. But if you wait three minutes, I'm sure you'll see another.

Based on her love of aviation, I have come up with a great TV idea. You know how they have those weird cable channels that you can leave on for your cats all day? Well they should make one that's all airplanes taking off and landing. That's it. Who wouldn't watch that for a few hours? I mean I imagine it could create a national security issue if they used live footage of an actual airport, but maybe we could get something on a tape-delay system? Can you imagine the amount of blogs and celebrity gossip I could read in a day with access to that channel for my kid? Please, someone make this happen!

Non-smoking section

Yesterday I had what should be my final ultrasound of this pregnancy, which also means it should be my final ultrasound ever. You hear that? EVER. As in not again, no way, three-strikes-and-you're-out, we are done, for real.

WeeBey was chill, just hanging out for inspection, so we got a great look at everything. Everything except my cervix because they don't give a shit about my cervix anymore and it could be fully thinned out and apparently that's just fine because they refuse to check it. And my mother thinks I am being flip about this pregnancy -- I am just taking my cues from the medical professionals.

I almost fell off the table when the tech finished her measurements and concluded that WeeBey weighs in at a whopping 4 lbs 14 oz right now and is in the 66th percentile overall. I'm sorry, what? If the baby gains the average half-pound per week, and I go six more weeks to 38 weeks, that means the baby will pop out weighing 8 pounds. Nonononono. I don't birth big babies. My babies were petite little peanuts (6 lbs 11 oz and 6 lbs 8 oz). What the hell am I going to do with an 8-pounder?

The tech did admit the femur length, which was in the 86th percentile, is probably skewing the weight upwards. That makes sense because both Jack and Emmie were incredibly long on ultrasound. Looking at their tall, skinny father, I can't imagine why. But I am planning on birthing another long, skinny child and there's nothing they can say to convince me otherwise.

Perhaps the low fetal weight will have something to do with all the smoking I am doing. What, you didn't think I smoked? I don't. But some random dude walking past me on the way out of the hospital totally thought I did.

There I was, just minding my own business as I hurried to my car, when a man carrying all of his earthly belongings in a hospital bedpan accosted me on the sidewalk. Clearly, he had just been discharged as he was still wearing his pajama bottoms and his hair had not seen a comb in a few days, although maybe it's just that wino-chic look all the kids are sporting these days.

"Do you have any cigarettes on you?" he bellowed.

I looked behind me, thinking he surely couldn't be talking to me. The one in the tight maternity shirt that made it explicitly clear I was knocked up. Nope, no one around but me.

"Come on, give me a cigarette," he yelled.

I incredulously open my mouth and point directly to my stomach.

"Sorry dude, I need them all for my unborn child," I said, while rolling my eyes. He muttered some expletive and kept walking.

I should have asked him if he knew just who he was talking to. People can't treat the Best Stay-At-Home Mommy Blogger like that, they need to have a little more respect. That's right -- thanks to my fine readers and supporters, I won my category! I now go up against all the other category winners for the Best Overall Blog prize. I'm not going to lie to you, many of the other blogs are awesome and I read and adore several of them. But I really want to win. I am competitive like that.

So won't you get out the vote for SnarkyMommy again on TheBump.com Mommy Blog awards this week? Voting is underway from now until Oct. 26 and you can vote as many times as you would like. If I win, everyone who votes for SnarkyMommy gets a pony! I know! How awesome would it be to have your own pony? I mean other than the fact you would have to find someplace to tie it up at night and it would shit all over your yard and whinny all the time, it would be awesome. Have I ever told you I am afraid of horses? I am. Deathly. They're huge and could trample you to death and anything that large should not move that fast with a human on its back. Especially if that human is me. But this is about you, my readers, and not me. So ponies for everyone!

Uncontrolled chaos

This morning started off much like every other morning of my life for the last five months with Jack yelling, "Mooooommmmyyyyyyyy I have to go pee on the poooootttttyyyyyyy" at 5:45 a.m. You know what it's like to be awoken out of a sound sleep like that? I'll tell you. It's like a garbage truck slamming into your car head-on. One minute you're driving along minding your own business and the next, you're covered in airbag dust and old banana peels wondering what in the hell just happened.

I stumbled out of bed, helped him to the bathroom and told him to summon me when he was ready to go back to bed. As soon as I got my pregnant ass settled in a somewhat acceptable position, Jack stuck his head in the doorway and stage-whispered, "Mommy? Do I have drama class today?" Because I wasn't prepared for that kind of thinking at 5:45 in the a.m., I asked him to repeat himself and after realizing he wanted to know what he was doing at school today, I mumbled something abut gym class and drama being what we were doing right then. I escorted him back to his room and re-settled myself into bed again.

Not even three minutes later, I heard, "Moooooommmmmmyyyyyyy, I have to go pooooooop on the pooootttttyyyyyyy." Seriously? You couldn't have done that three minutes ago when you were already in there? Seeing as I had been up approximately 57 times since midnight to pee, complain my back hurt, ask Josh to rub my back, pee again, heave my body all over the bed trying to turn over and take some medicine for contractions, all I wanted was some decent rest for another hour. Josh sensed my need for sleep (well, he sensed it because I was huffing and bitching a blue streak about how this is such BULLSHIT that our kid gets up so damn early and doesn't get enough rest and we're all doomed because he's going to turn out stupid from lack of sleep, it says so right there in "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Baby.") and offered to take one for the team and handle this bathroom expedition.

I thanked him profusely and waited for the inevitable wail I knew I would hear from Jack's room when he saw Daddy and not Mommy come in. He is not a fan of Daddy handling the early-morning wakeups and will protest if presented with that option. Sure enough, within miliseconds I heard Jack crying, "But I want Mommy!" Josh is a veteran of this nonsense, however, so he knows now that Jack won't stop whining and also won't stop complaining he has to use the bathroom, so he just picked Jack up and carried him into the bathroom and eventually, he stopped complaining and just got down to business.

Jack continued to voice his displeasure in the only way a 3.5-year-old can, and that's to say at the top of his lungs, while I tried to ignore the sounds coming through the wall. I knew that if I could hear him loud and clear, Emmie could also hear him through the other side of the wall. And 6 a.m. is no time for Emmie to make her appearance for the day. Josh finally got him to quiet down somehow and I relaxed a little. Until Jack somehow stubbed his toe walking out of the bathroom.

The shrill screaming started right outside Emmie's room and resulted in the immediate interruption of poor Emmie's sleep. Poor Emmie who normally sleeps until close to 7 a.m. Poor Emmie who was woken out of a sound sleep by a screaming banshee, which caused her to start screaming in the same manner.

So at 6 a.m., Josh and I were in bed listening to two hysterical children scream their faces off. I can't think of a better way to start my day. While I went to calm Jack down and tend to the toe of death, Josh got Emmie and brought her into our room to hang out between us while we pretended she was actually going to go back to sleep. She behaved for a little while before sitting up and poking me in the eye repeatedly while asking hopefully for milk and a Diego video. Again, just the way I like to start my morning. Maybe tomorrow we can do it all again!

If you're looking for me, I'll be the one in bed at 7:30 p.m. tonight. Of course, it won't be restful considering I can't sleep comfortably for more than an hour at a time (see: third-trimester of pregnancy), but damn it, I will at least try to pretend I am enjoying it.

Even more pregnancy blather

For someone who hasn't blogged all that much about this third pregnancy, I sure do have a lot to say this week. Today was another day that began with early-morning contractions, every 10 minutes apart.

After some lying around and drinking of water and making Josh stay home from the office and get the kids dressed and fed and Jack off to school, I called my OB to let her know this nonsense was still happening.

She called me back and said they were going to have me start on Procardia, an anti-contraction medication. I took it with Jack and it seemed to help then, so I am hoping it will do the same thing with WeeBey. Procardia is a hypertension drug that relaxes smooth muscles. Because your uterus is a smooth muscle, it helps keep it from freaking the hell out and contracting. Also, I can now start mainlining cheeseburgers and bacon-wrapped filets because this medicine will clear my arteries. Yes!

But the drug does come with some side effects. No, no, not for WeeBey, for me. My cheeks get as flushed as a little cherub and I get a little dizzy and my heart races. It also leaves a weird mint taste in my mouth, and no, that's not from the mint oreo blizzard I just consumed. I told you it was a weird side effect.

So I take the Procardia and try to take it easy and I see my high-risk doctor on Monday for an ultrasound and my OB on Wednesday for a regular appointment. The meds did help get the contractions under control, so that was pleasant, but the taking it easy part could use some work. Have you tried to take it easy with a 21-month-old and a 3.5-year-old? And a house undergoing remodeling? There's nothing easy about it. My kids think I am a giant bounce house and insist on jumping on me and my stomach. When they're not dive-bombing me, they're trying to see who can shove the other one further away in the fight to get as close to me as possible.

I love their attention, but oh my lord, can't we all just get along and sit nicely on each side of Mommy? Must we fight for supremacy of my lap each and every time we read a book? I am not sure what they're going to do when I only have two sides and three kids, but I have a feeling it will involve violence and the thinning of the herd through natural selection.

And you knew this was coming, but I swear this is the last time I will remind you (this weekend at least): you can still vote for Snarky Mommy in the best Stay-At-Home Mommy Blog category. You can click here to vote. Voting ends Oct. 19 at 11:59 p.m. ET. If I win my category, I go on to compete against the other category winners for the Best Overall Blog, so don't be shy about voting, refreshing your browser and voting again!

I also want to send a big shout-out of thanks to all you awesome readers who have voted and Tweeted and Facebooked the shit out this contest on my behalf. I really, really appreciate it!

Roid rage

In the good news column, my high-risk doctor gave the OK for me to go home this morning. He's awesome and probably figured I would just badger them all day until they sprung me anyway, so he said I could leave but I needed to come back for my second steroid shot this afternoon.

For those unfamiliar with the reason for this protocol, steroid shots are sometimes given to women at risk of developing or who are in preterm labor. The steroids make the baby's lungs mature faster, so in case he or she is born early, it gives the baby a better shot at surviving and breathing easier. Because of my shitty incompetent cervix and now the pesky contractions, I am at risk of going into preterm labor, so this just gives us a little insurance in case I do. They don't think WeeBey is coming any time soon, but better safe than sorry.

The steroid shots are given in two doses, 24 hours apart. They are administered via your ass with a big needle. I think they might use a drinking straw, but I couldn't tell for sure because the nurse was too busy shoving it into my ample butt cheek to show me what it looked like.

You might think I am being a big baby, but I assure you, intramuscular injections hurt like a bitch. I was prepared for the pain in the ass because I had steroid shots when I was pregnant with Jack. It's like the Alamo, you never forget. I also announced out loud to the nurse that I used to have a lot of respect for women who did injectible drugs for IVF or IUI. I now have even more. Doing that to yourself every day, sometimes for multiple months? Brave, brave women.

When I went back to triage for my shot today, the woman who was my nurse yesterday on the perinatal surveillance unit (basically where they corral all the women who are in preterm labor and not close to their due dates) and administered the first shot was on duty. And here she was ready to deliver the second. What a coincidence!

"So you're ready for this?" she asked with a smile. "I think we did your right side yesterday so we'll do the left today."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered that you remember my ass or frightened," I remarked dryly.

She must not have found me as funny as I found myself, because she grabbed a handful of flesh and plunged in the needle. I grabbed the side of the bed and inhaled sharply. I might have screamed like a little girl, but that can be neither confirmed nor denied.

I limped out of the triage room with promises that I would try to take it easy and wouldn't be back for at least five more weeks. I quickly forgot about my shot until this evening, when I went to the bathroom and caught a glimpse in the mirror of a Snoopy band-aid stuck to my ass.

My 50-game suspension from Major League Baseball action starts now, so I am ineligible for the playoffs, but I should be good to go by the All-Star Break next season. If anyone out there is looking for an out-of-shape 35-year-old second baseman who throws right and bats left, I am available. Call me. Don't believe anything you've heard about my slow home-to-first times either, my sister is a liar. It's not 15 seconds. Not even close. More like seven. But with the 'roids in me, I could probably cut that down to four.

Do you feel bad that I had to sacrifice my ass for the sake of my unborn child? You know what would ease the pain a little? If you voted for Snarky Mommy in the best Stay-At-Home Mommy Blog category. You can click here to vote! No pressure, but I am hovering between first and second place and the sympathy vote might just put me over the top.

You knew this was coming

This pregnancy has progressed with nary a complication up to this point, which of course means I was due to be totally screwed over by the universe any minute. Today I received a message from the universe, priority mail. I even had to sign for it.

When Jack woke up (that would be at 5:50 a.m. for anyone wondering) I stumbled into his room to help him to the bathroom and threw myself back into bed to wait for him to announce he was done. I felt a little sore, which was odd, and realized the soreness was actually cramping. In the cervix/uterus/general pregnancy area. Huh. Weird.

After I had a few more cramping sensations, I poked Josh and asked him to get me some water. I drank it and started looking at the clock. The cramping was coming every five minutes. Huh. Weird.

I had an OB appointment on the books for 10:15 a.m. so instead of calling and having them send me to triage, I decided to wait it out. I laid on my left side and drank more water than I think I have this entire pregnancy put together and made Josh stay home from work and handle the morning routine with the kids.

Figuring I should probably take a shower and shave my legs, you know, since I hadn't showered yesterday, I managed to get that out of the way with little fuss. But the cramping, it continued. Continued through me making Jack's lunch and getting everyone's clothes laid out and tying everyone's shoes. I tried to tell Josh he could tie his own shoes, especially since they were Velcro, but he ignored me and held his foot up anyway.

After three hours of the every-five-minutes cramps, I called the OB's office to see if I could come early and they said I was the next contestant on the Price is Right. (Get it? Price is Right - come on down? No? Moving on.)

My OB took a look at my cervix and told me what I already knew: It was closed and the stitch was fine, but I would need to go downstairs for monitoring just to be safe. I sighed and tried to get out of it, but duty called. I figured it would be a quick one-hour trip and I would be on my way home.

Except they hooked me up to the contraction monitor and lookie-loo, those cramps were really real-live contractions. And they were indeed coming fast and furious, like every four minutes. Huh. Weird.

The midwife helping out in triage stuck her head in the curtain and told me I just bought myself a 24-hour stay. Nooooooooo! Not the perinatal surveillance unit! I know how this works: first they admit you for "just a night" and the next thing you know, you're confined for three weeks.

The resident conferred with my high-risk doctor and he said he wanted to get a pair of steroid shots in me because I have a cerclage and am only 31 weeks and am contracting. So after they sent me to my room, they shot me in the ass with a needle. And those steroid shots don't feel like a bunny's velvety nose sniffing you either. It feels like someone is trying to jam a jagged tree limb in one side of your ass and out through your stomach.

So here I sit, randomly contracting all the live long day (and night). But you know what would stop the contractions? If all my readers went and voted for me in the Best Stay-At-Home Mommy Blog category at TheBump.com! (For shame, I use my unborn child to guilt you all into voting for me. I am above nothing.) You can click here to vote!

Shock value

Recently, we had a ton of light bulbs all burn out in various parts of the house. The kitchen lost two, the dining room was down one, the living room had three of the six out, the hallway between Jack and Emnmie's room was completely dark, you get the idea.

I asked Josh to replace them because changing the bulbs requires someone to stand on a chair. And when I change them, I usually just drag the nearest kitchen stool around the room and climb up and down off of it. The stools are about four feet tall, have about a three-inch backrest on them and spin. So when I climb up, they tend to wobble and move in circles and pregnant ladies with cerclages probably shouldn't stand in that position.

So he said sure, he'd change them, and three weeks and mucho amount of nagging later, he finally got around to it. Except he replaced them with the eco-friendly bulbs. Those are nice and green and all, but they can't be used in dimmable light situatuons. All our lights on the first floor are dimmable. But Josh, in his quest to save more money the environment, said he was switching them. He did, however, leave the dimmable ones in the living room. I suspect that's only because he likes mood lighting when he plays XBox 360 at night, not because he cares about how I look in flattering light.

He also, in his infinite wisdom, didn't replace one of the bulbs in the dining room. His reasoning? It would save electricity to not have that bulb in there. Perhaps we could unplug one of his five laptops that he runs 24 hours per day. I imagine the cost savings might be a little more than one measly lightbulb in the dining room.

I lived with his decision for a few days, but yesterday I just couldn't take it anymore. Emmie is obsessed with turning the lights on when she gets into her highchair and every time they come on, she points at the dark one and says, "EH?" Which translates to "Why the hell didn't Daddy change that damn bulb?" Plus, every time I sat in the dining room, which is three times each day, it drove me to the brink of insanity. Call it nesting, but my GOD, I couldn't stand the sight of that dark little can light and I was going to do something about.

Last night, while the kids were eating dinner and Josh was out of town on a little business trip, I marched over to the utility closet and pulled out a bulb. It was dimmable. Look at me, just flaunting my lightbulb choices right in his face. My eight-months-pregnant ass climbed up on a dining room chair and replaced the bulb. Just like that! Done.

Jack was all kinds of horrified -- "Mommy! Do NOT stand on chairs. That is not nice!" -- but I assured him it was OK in this instance and only for grown-ups. Emmie thought it was the funniest thing she had ever seen and showed her appreciation for the new rays of light now streaming down upon her by throwing her half-chewed piece of cheese at me. Thanks for that. But because I fought the man and won, I didn't care.

When the kids went in to eat breakfast this morning, I heard the familiar "EH?" from Miss Emmie and Jack yelled, "Mommy! The light bulb is broken again!"

Son of a bitch. Darkness where once there was light. After I plunked down everyone's oatmeal, I climbed up on the chair again to investigate and found the glass of the bulb had broken off at the neck, leaving the inner workings of the bulb in the fixture. Huh. Weird.

I figured I must have gotten a bad bulb and decided to take it out and start again. But how to grab it without the glass surrounding it? Notice, at no time did I think, "Wow, that's live electricity just flowing right through there. Maybe I shouldn't grab it at all."

I reach up, bend the little metal thingies that are sticking out and proceed to shock the shit out of my fingers. I yelp, slam my hand on my leg and suppress the urge to drop the F-bomb. Jack looks up and says, "Mommy, what happened?" Oh nothing, Mommy just sent a kajillion jolts of electricty through her hand and straight into her uterus. I'm sure it's fine.

Because I am nothing if not resourceful, I immediately walked to the computer, where I googled "electrical shock pregnancy" and found many useful entries. Many of which contained the words "fetal distress" and "death." A few deep breaths later, after the realization that people on Yahoo Answers are complete idiots, I figured things were fine. It was a momentary buzz that didn't knock me unconscious and WeeBey was wiggling around just fine. Although that could have been spasms from the possible electrocution it just suffered. Hard to tell, but being my third pregnancy, I just told WeeBey to rub some dirt on it, it would be fine.

I then called Josh to inform him of my stupidity. After asking if I was all right, his next words were, "I told you we should have left it empty." Oh yeah? Well you can just be the next one to get shocked Mr. Energy Savings. You can deal with it tonight. He calmly told me he planned to turn the light switch OFF before touching it. Oh yeah? Well... well... whatever. You just wait until I dim the lights and burn all the bulbs out at once. Then we'll see who's happy.

Random funny Jack-isms

"Mommy, I need to wash my armhips (armpits)."

(While helping in his class, I tried to wash my hands while he washed his and he put his arm out to block me) "Mommy, we wait turns."

"I am going to hug the baby in your tummy."

"Mommy, I am just kimming (kidding)."

"You have to wash like this (interlacing his fingers) because that's where the germs live. Miss Ashley tell me that."

"Mommy, porcupines have sticks on their backs." (Thank you, Diego video.)

(Seeing me get ready to leave for a meeting at his school) "Mommy, are you going to wear your boots so you can be fancy?"

"Is the new baby going to eat squished food?"

"Mommy, you did not take a shower today, that is why you have pony hair (a ponytail)."

"Frogs eat bugs. And then the bugs are in their tummies and the bugs are broken."

"Mommy, someday when I am big, I will get married and I will live here with you!" (Let's see what your wife thinks about that one,buddy.)

******************

Jack was watching me type the last of this and announced he wanted to spell his name and Emmie's name. So I am turning this over to him.

jack emmie 1234567890 mommy

(He is clearly a genius.)

Just call me MacGyver

Josh left for a weekend in New York this evening and I had to stay home in Chicago because I am pregnant and my OB said she wouldn't feel comfortable with me traveling at 30 weeks in a high-risk pregnancy.

I never get to do anything (says the woman who went to France the last time she was pregnant and to New York, Vegas, San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Dubai, the Maldives and Florida in the last year). Boo hoo. I also had to cancel a trip to Florida at the end of the month because of this pesky pregnancy status. I never have any fun. (I can feel all your eyes rolling collectively to the backs of your heads.)

Technically, Josh is going to do some IT work for a friend's company. But this friend throws awesome parties for a living so I find it hard to believe when he tells me "we'll be working the whole weekend." Sure, sure. Working at Buddha Bar and Marquee til 3 a.m. is more like it.

He'll probably be rolling in around 5:30 a.m. just as I am rolling out of bed with the early-rising Jack. Except he'll have a few beers in him before he passes out and I'll just feel like passing out from exhaustion.

His leaving actually inspired the MacGyver in me because it meant I needed to figure out why the alarm system wasn't working for the last two weeks. Well, I actually know why it wasn't working -- we removed a sensor during the remodeling and that caused the whole system to freak out and randomly blink and beep at us until we broke down and paid the $145-per-hour fee to have some dude come out, put on those weird little shoe covers and hit the same buttons we could have hit ourselves.

I also may or may not have dropped the remote sensor on my key chain and watched as the little buttons flew all over the kitchen when it split open upon impact. Those little remotes are not cheap and when I saw what happened after dropping it a mere three feet, I might have cried a little. I also never did find one of the teeny blue buttons. I suspect Emmie ate it. Or it fell underneath the dishwasher where it will never be seen again. Either way, it's dead to me.

Not wanting anyone to break in and kill me while Josh is gone, or at least not break in and kill me without the alarm blaring, I decided to call and schedule a service appointment. Except the guy told me I would have to pay the $145 per hour, despite the fact we just signed up for a new service plan. Apparently they don't cover fixing the remote when you drop it and lose one of the keys. Which is bullshit. It also doesn't cover replacing a door sensor because you installed a whole new door. Again, bullshit.

The helpful dude on the phone told me he was all for saving me money, so he would walk me through the process of attempting to fix both things. The panel was easily fixed -- as I predicted, we only needed to push a few extra buttons -- and voila, a working alarm.

The remote involved a little more intricacy. The dude was trying to explain how the keys should be arranged, but he was talking about mirror images and how it would look if it was face-up, but it was really face-down so I should just mirror what he was saying and then I freaked out and felt like I was taking the ACT again and I suck at spatial relationships and I might have dropped the F-bomb on him under my breath and then threw the remote across the room.

But then I put on my big-girl pants and took charge of the remote and drew a little chart on a piece of scrap paper and successfully arranged the keys. They didn't work. I might have thrown it again.

The dude told me to just give it up already and I said I didn't need the service call ANYWAY and then I hung up. Because I am a mother, and I know everything, I decided maybe he told me the wrong configuration for the buttons. So I pried the remote open with a butter knife and rearranged them. AND IT WORKED!

How you like them remote buttons dude? I did it all by myself and didn't even need you or your stupid mirror-image remote configurating advice.

So in case anyone is thinking about coming to kill me this weekend, I fixed the alarm and you totally won't be able to do it in secret. I have thwarted you.

Room with a view

I haven't had much chance to speak of the great Bedroom Remodeling Project of 2009 that began last week because, well, things are going (shhhh) well. No termites, no structural damage, no delays. Last week Sunday I had a crap-filled sunroom, Monday I had a shell of a former sunroom with no floor and by Tuesday, we had new floors and only studs for walls.

Just like that! No fuss, little muss. The rest of the week progressed apace and Monday, they blew some marshmallow topping into all the walls and under the floor and in the ceiling. It looked tasty, but I figured I should wait to stick my finger into it until it was dry. Today, they're hanging drywall.

There was one minor hiccup that involved three different trips to two different Home Depots for windows, but that was my fault and not that of my contractor. He told me to get new-construction windows, I didn't listen and just grabbed some that looked like they would work and were on sale, and they didn't work, so he got the right ones from Menards the next day. Yawn.

Wasn't it a lot more interesting when the termites were snacking on my timbers last summer? But I must say, hassle-free remodeling is quite delightful. Not as good for the creative juices, but very good for the pregnant lady's mental health.

Now that the completion of the new bedroom is near, we have a dilemma I will pose to you, my very smart readers.

This new bedroom set-up a little wonky in that you have to walk through Jack's room to access it. Annoying, but not a deal-breaker when it came down to it. Jack is, understandably, a little obsessed with the door leading to the new room. He runs into his room and throws it open and cackles. The other night he said to me, with a gleeful smile on his face, "Mommy? I can open that door when Emmie is sleeping in there?"

No! NO! Never. Oh my God, no.

Our original plan was to put Emmie in the new room, leave Jack in his current room and put the new baby in the nursery, which is Emmie's current room. Emmie will be in a crib for another year (I can assure you of that, even if I have to zip her in there in a crib tent) so she won't have any issues trying to get into Jack's room. But now it seems we're going to have an issue with Jack trying to get into her room. And since he is free to roam unencumbered because he's in a big-boy bed, this could present a dilemma.

We considered putting Jack in the nursery, which doesn't share a doorway with any other room, and putting Emmie in the big room and the baby in the new room, but then we have to bring a squalling baby through her room and disturb her several times per night. We could put Emmie in the new room and the baby in the big room, but that's just a waste of space since the baby doesn't need the big room. Plus, in another year, we'll be trying to contain Emmie the same way we have to contain Jack when he tries to get out of bed.

Let me also throw out there that Jack goes to bed at 6:45 p.m. and gets up at 5:45 a.m., but must read quietly in his bedroom until 7 a.m. He also goes to the bathroom at least once during the night. Emmie goes to bed at 6:45 p.m. and sleeps until 7 a.m. and does not wake up during the night. WeeBey will be going to bed god only knows when and waking up at least 25 times per night, based on the sleep schedules of my other two newborns.

So how would you configure the sleeping arrangements to best accommodate everyone?

Jean pool

Here we are at 30 weeks pregnant, just minding our own business, WeeBey and I. Not really believing that in two months, yes TWO MONTHS, I will have another newborn. While I complain all the time about not being ready, I can tell you I am absolutely ready to never wear maternity pants again.

Just like my two previous pregnancies, my belly measures about two weeks behind and I am carrying pretty low. That means I don't look huge and while I feel huge, I get dirty looks for complaining about not being able to bend over and tie my shoes anymore. What might look like a cute bump to most people feels like a beer keg shoved between my rib cage and my pelvic bone. Sure, you might not know I am pregnant when you see me from behind, but damn, I feel like I am having sextuplets.

Part of the problem with my comfort lies in my choice of maternity pants. I refuse to dress like a slob when I am pregnant and try to at least look presentable when leaving the house. I might not shower, but by god, I will have on jeans instead of yoga pants. I know some people might question the purchase of designer maternity jeans, considering you don't wear them for more than six months, but for me, they are the staple of my pregnancy wardrobe and worth every penny.

My Seven For All Mankind jeans were a gift during my first pregnancy. I didn't wear them often because I was on bedrest, but they were my go-to for most doctor appointment outings and had favored pants status until someone (who shall remain nameless but rhymes with Yosh) accidentally put them in the dryer. Then my favorite maternity jeans became my least-favorite torture device because they were entirely too tight. Coupled with their extremely low-rise profile, it was not a pretty picture. With my second pregnancy, I was a little thinner overall, so they fit better and I almost wore them out. I even had to have the elastic band fixed at the tailor. This time around, the Sevens are splitting time in the rotation with my new Citizens of Humanity jeans. Now that fall has descended upon the Windy City, I can't wear shorts anymore, so I threw a pair of khaki cargo pants into the mix and end up doing a lot of laundry.

But both pairs of jeans have a fatal flaw: the denim portion of the jeans cuts into my belly just above the pubic bone. This doesn't present a problem when I am standing, but if I sit down for any length of time, all hell breaks loose. As an added bonus, I can't sit down in my Sevens at all unless I am wearing an extremely long shirt because I will display a generous portion of my ass crack to the entire world. And if there's one thing this world doesn't need more of, it's a view of my pregnant ass crack.

But I soldier on, wearing these jeans day in and day out because I am a slave to fashion and for the love of chocolate shakes with whipped cream on them, I will look good while pregnant. I ignore the belly tightening and intense cramps in my side when I get up, I ignore the angry red indentations in my lower belly.

The one thing I can't ignore is the way I have to hike my pants up every 30 seconds. All. Day. Long. It has nothing to do with the type of belly panel, because the Citizens are a full panel and the Sevens are a below-the-belly panel. It's just a fact of life that with a undulating beach ball in your pants, they're not going to stay up. And let me tell you how attractive it is to watch an almost eight-months-pregnant woman hike her pants up. I think I caused blindness in an unsuspecting dad at the park this weekend. Poor guy never saw that expanse of ass-pale belly coming.

I can't wait until I come home from the hospital and can once again don a pair of pants with a real zipper and snap. Sure, yanking your pants down with ease when you have to pee 27 times a day is convenient, but it's way overrated.

It's an honor to be nominated

There's this little blogging contest over at The Bump. SnarkyMommy.com is in the running for Best Stay-At-Home Mom Blog. I, being of a competitive nature, would like to win. And you can help!

If you wouldn't mind, I would so dearly appreciate some nominations. Don't feel obligated or anything. But it would be awesome. And I know it's a little annoying, but you have to register for their site to nominate. But it's not like they ask for your first-born, just a few standard questions.

You can click the image below, or go to http://pregnant.thebump.com/extras/mommy-blog-awards.aspx.



In the meantime, I'm over here just bathing myself in hand sanitizer because I am surrounded by a bunch of feverish, sickly children who clearly delight in spreading their pestilence to pregnant women. It's totally acceptable to keep them at arm's length, right? Even when they whine and cry and look at me with their little red eyes and rosy cheeks?

Suckitude, Part the Second

As we left it last post, Jack's school called and the secretary said, "Is this Amy? Hi. Jack had an accident."

My first thought, upon seeing the caller ID, was that he had thrown up. Emmie puked in the morning, so of course he would be puking in the afternoon and I just knew that I would be puking by dinner. Great, just great.

Except then she said he had an accident. The day before he had "an accident" and they just changed his pants to the spare we leave at school. So what the hell were they calling me for? Just change him.

"He fell on the playground and we don't think he has a concussion and he didn't break anything, but he fell on his head and we have him here in the office and we just can't calm him down," she said. "I think you need to come and get him."

What the? Fell? Head? Concussion? Well, shit. That is no good. I told her I would be right over and hung up. My next realization was that Emmie was in the middle of her nap. How in the hell was I going to get her up and downstairs and into the car without carrying her? This put a kink in things.

Putting my first-born's needs above all others, I tried to rouse Emmie to no avail, so I reached into the crib and picked her up. Then I carried her down the stairs. Sometimes, you just have to carry your 25-pound toddler in an emergency, cerclage or no cerclage. She woke up enough once we were downstairs that she could walk out to the car on her own two feet, so off we went.

When I arrived, he was sitting slumped in a chair with his teacher and a bag of ice on his face. I could hear the moaning before I got around the corner in the office and when he saw me, the wailing started anew. When he turned toward me, I felt awful. His poor little eye was all black and scraped from the eyebrow, down around his eye to his cheek.

I sent my beautiful child off to school that morning and they sent him home a scarred prize-fighter. Apparently, he was running and missed the steps on the playground and hit the ground with his head first, then his hands. But seeing as he is a boy and we have definitely had our share of injuries over the last three years, I was pretty calm about the whole thing.

His doctor didn't seem to think anything was serious enough to merit an office visit, so we hung out on the couch and played and watched a little Wiggles until he calmed down. He was pushing his sister down after about an hour, so I knew he had to be fine.

The best part about the whole incident? Picture day was the next day. Oh yes, my kid had a black eye in his first school picture. And when another mom suggested I could just have them retake it later, I asked if she was crazy.

"I have a blog, this is material too good to pass up!" I crowed. That's me, always exploiting my children for material. But how can you not show this off?


Day 1, ouch


Day 2, even better