Exponential fun

On several occasions this fall, Emmie spent a few days by herself at one of the grandparents' houses. Not because I like outsourcing her care, but because it was easier for everyone when I was unable to lift her or when we didn't want her to contract the Swine Flu of death. And hell, it was nice to only be responsible for one kid who is gone six hours per day and can take a shower on his own.

Jack was promised his own visits with the Grandmas when he had school vacation, and this week, he cashed in on one of those promises. He was spoiled rotten while Emmie and Maeve had sister time with mommy and daddy. Emmie was pissed and missed her brother dearly, so she was pleased as punch when he returned home this afternoon.

You would think that the addition of the third child would only raise the level of craziness in the house by a third, but you would be severely underestimating that. I am pretty sure that Jack's homecoming ratcheted up the crazy by at least 150 percent.

There was screaming and laughing and crying and tantrums within the first hour, and that was just mommy. The kids were even more insane.

Poor Maeve had just gotten used to the slightly quieter atmosphere -- I say slightly because Emmie can throw a tantrum with the best of 'em -- and now it's pandemonium again.

I am too tired to come up with a witty wrap up to this post, so we'll just abruptly end there. Sort of like my sleep schedule these days.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am currently trying to recover from bathing two children while the third one screamed bloody murder. The screamer is paying me back with a non-stop nurseathon going on three hours. And yes, I typed this entire post with one hand. Anything for you my readers, anything.

Mr. Sandman, paging Mr. Sandman

Why didn't anyone remind me about the lack of uninterrupted sleep when you have a newborn?

I mean I remembered that newborns sleep like 20 hours a day and I remembered that they eat like 10 times a day and I remembered that they do these two things at completely random and unscheduled times. But what I didn't remember was waking out of a sound sleep at least twice each night, sometimes more, and having to sit up and stick a boob in the baby's face. And then you have to sit there. And wait for the baby to take her sweet time eating. Do you know a newborn can take an hour to eat? At 3 a.m.? So you're awake from 3-4 a.m. feeding because the baby is too little to lie down and latch on all by herself while you go back to sleep?

Add in the 15 minutes it takes to get her settled back to sleep, three or four times before it really takes hold, and you're awake for two hours in the middle of the night. I can tell you, the ABC overnight news team is on overnight for a reason. They also show the same loop of news over and over and over. Also, I might want a new ab workout machine. It seemed like a great idea at 4:10 a.m. the other night during the infomercial.

So while I might shock you all by announcing I slept until noon today, it doesn't really count because I was up until 1 a.m. and then again for 90 minutes at 3:30 a.m. and again at 8 a.m. for 20 minutes to pump and hand Maeve off to Daddy for a bottle.

It's not the lack of sleep that's killing me, it's the interruption of sleep. I always get pissed when woken up -- ask Josh -- and tend not to make sense. It's even more fun when it happens multiple times over multiple nights over multiple weeks. For now, I get extra sleep in the mornings while Josh handles Jack and Emmie. But in a few weeks when he goes back to work I am going to be screwed.

That would be Jan. 11, when he starts a project in Washington D.C. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Right. Josh will be gone four days a week, leaving me home alone with three kids under the age of 4. One of whom wakes up multiple times a night and another who wakes up each day at 5:30 a.m. I told him I hope his company is ready for its health insurance premiums to increase because HIS WIFE IS GOING TO HAVE A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.

The project only runs through the end of April. I mean, the first three months with a newborn aren't that hard, are they? (That sound you just heard was the sound of my soul being sucked from my body.) I am SO HAPPY about this development. The development I learned about three days before I gave birth. You can imagine my reaction to this wonderful news in such a hormonal state.

He can totally watch the kids via Skype when I need a few minutes to myself after dinner, right?

Merry Christmas

I am normally not one for sappy holiday musings, but we really did get the greatest gift of all this year. Of course, I am talking about our newest tax deduction.

May you and yours be the recipients of great gifts, good cheer and easy travels.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Here, mostly

Just wanted to update the masses that the reports of my untimely demise are totally false. The children may have taken over the house, but Josh and I are still in charge. Kind of.

The grandparents packed up and went home on Saturday morning, leaving us alone with the natives for the first time. Everyone has survived thus far.

Jack is being an exemplary big brother, curious about the breastfeeding and eager to help out in any way with Maeve. Emmie is an awesome big sister, excited to give kisses and gentle touches and always on alert for crying, and she will inform us when Maeve needs our immediate attention.

Maeve has been sleeping like a champ, routinely snoozing in six-hour stretches overnight. I have now jinxed it by saying it on the Internet and she will probably wake up every hour on the hour for the rest of my life to spite me. But she is also the gassiest baby I have ever met. I think she is going to melt the polar ice caps with all the gas she is releasing every day. Poor kid.

I am sleeping like a new mom, although Josh and the grandparents have made sure I get enough rest. I get up with Gassy Girl when she needs to be fed around the clock, but I also sleep in with her in the mornings. So that works out well.

Of course, I am in no way ready for Christmas, but I figure people are lucky I even got them a gift with a two-week-old in my house, if I don't wrap the gift, too bad.

So I wanted to get a post out there to show we are all accounted for. And yes, I have a picture of Miss Maeve, the two-week-old. I know that's why you all came here anyway.

Rocking the bells

Yesterday morning I dragged my sleep-deprived ass out of bed at the ungodly hour of 8:30 (shut it, I was up for an hour at midnight and again from 4:30-6:30 a.m.) so I could witness my first-born sing in his first Christmas concert.

I had tears in my eyes -- hormonal? Perhaps. But it was just so cute and I was so proud of him and I couldn't help myself.

I present to you, "Jingle Bell Rock" by the 3-5-year-olds. May your holidays be full of mixing and mingling!

Elbow grease

The morning after we brought Maeve home from the hospital, I was in a sleep-deprived haze when I heard a knock on the bedroom door a little after 10 a.m. My mother-in-law greeted us with a phrase I really wasn't expecting to hear.

"I think Emmie needs to go the ER," she said. "I think she dislocated her elbow or her shoulder."

That certainly got my attention. I snapped awake and asked what happened. Turns out, Emmie was being almost 2 years old and decided to throw herself on the ground while Grandma was holding her hand. Ahh, the joys of noodle children.

Josh jumped up and got dressed and I went downstairs to investigate. I found her watching "The Wiggles" and eating a snack with her left hand, refusing to use her right arm at all. Grandma said she wouldn't move it and cried when she tried to check it out. She also had three large butterfly stickers affixed to each cheek and her forehead, but I didn't even think to ask why. They seemed to make her happy, so I rolled with it. Besides, I was too tired to care why she had them there.

Sure enough, she gave me a tear-filled "No" when I tried to look at it. Seeing as there was no way I was dragging three-day-old Maeve to the germ-infested Children's Memorial Hospital ER, Josh and his mom took Emmie and I stayed home.

I must really have been tired, because this all seemed very natural and I didn't worry about it at all. She was in capable hands and I was dealing with the Nursing Nipple Pain of Death, so my mind was a little cloudy.

Less than an hour later, they were home and Emmie was no worse for wear. My mother-in-law said the nurses were kind of mean, but the urgent-care people popped the elbow back in and she was good as new. Sure, there was some crying, but again, I was so tired I forgot to be overly concerned about it.

A little Motrin and a nap and you would never know she suffered. Grandma is scarred for life. Daddy was stoked about yet another great parking spot. Mommy was just glad someone was here to take her to the hospital so she didn't have to leave the house.

And of course, now she's prone to having this happen again. And again. And again. I hope Josh took notes on the proper way to pop it back into place, because there's no way I am paying the $100 co-pay for that every few weeks.

Pictionary

I have been working on a post since Friday night but can't seem to find the time to, you know, finish writing it. Something about a newborn on the boob and sleep-deprivation. Dunno, but man, it's hard to find the time to write right now.

Let me distract you with some pictures!

She didn't even buy me dinner

This afternoon, a woman I had never met before came into my bedroom and asked to see my breasts. Within 20 minutes she was squeezing them and it wasn't objectionable at all. In fact, I paid her to do so.

Oh the Lactation Consultant, she has changed my life. You would think after three kids, I could just throw a baby on the boob and be done with it. But then, you haven't met Maeve. Oh no, my third baby is out to make things as difficult on me as possible (see: worst two hours of my life in labor) and decided she was going to throw a wrench into the process.

It started off innocently enough in the labor and delivery room. Maeve latched right on and seemed to enjoy her first snack on the boob. As the hours went by, she was happy to oblige me when I stuck her on the breast. But there was a familiar little twinge, one I had with both Jack and Emmie. But I wasn't worried -- for me, breastfeeding usually starts with soreness at the initial latch for about two or three weeks, and then goes away.

I even asked the lactation consultant at the hospital if she thought there was a tongue-tie issue (where her tongue can't come far enough out of her mouth) and she said there wasn't, she just needed a deeper latch and better positioning.

By the time we got home Tuesday night, the pain was still there, but manageable. By Wednesday night, I was bawling because it hurt intensely throughout the entire feeding, on both sides, no matter what position or latch depth I used. I was crying because it hurt, but I was also crying because I was scared to feed my own child. Hormonal much?

Looking at my cracked, blistered and bleeding nipples (isn't that an awesome picture in your head?) and after using the jaws of life to disengage her from said nipple, I decided to pump for a few feedings to give myself a break. But how to get her the milk? I dreaded nipple confusion and didn't want to do anything to compromise her ability to breastfeed. If there's one thing I am good at in this motherhood thing, it's breastfeeding. Not to mention that a third baby doesn't have any other options -- there aren't enough hands to go around and certainly not a free one to hold a bottle while the other balances baby. So we gave her the milk in syringe. Just squirted it right into her little mouth and she was happy with that.

Now pumping is not pain-free either, but I control the level of suction as well as the duration. Imagine my surprise and delight when I looked down and saw the pump pulling straight blood out of my nipple and depositing it in the precious, precious breastmilk. Strangely, it didn't deter me from continuing. Failure is not an option.

However, this made me realize it was time to pull out the big guns and call in a specialist. I needed help.

Enter Judy, the Lactation Consultant from on high. She made a house call this morning and assessed the situation. And no, I'm not talking about that guy nicknamed "The Situation" on MTV's The Jersey Shore. She got right down to business and told me I had a bad case of cracked bleeding nipples brought on by a problem with Maeve's latch.

Turns out, my dear sweet girl with the tiny face has several strikes against her in the nursing column. First, she has a short tongue. Second, she likes to suck on her own tongue. Third, she has a receding chin. Fourth, she has a high, arched palate. Those aren't dealbreakers, but instead make the whole thing infinitely more difficult when it comes to getting the nipple correctly positioned as far back and high in her mouth as possible.

From the outside, her latch looks great. On the inside, it feels like a barracuda has gotten hold of my nipple and wants to make me its lunch. It's awesome. You'll have to trust me on that.

To correct these issues, she gave me some instructions. First and foremost, I am to to discontinue using the Lansinoh cream they gave me at the hospital and get a prescription for Dr. Jack Newman's All-Purpose Nipple Cream. She was so emphatic, I was scared to deviate from the plan. Second, I should feed Maeve from the breast only every other feeding, pumping the other feedings to give my nipples a break. Third, I should try using a nipple shield (a thin, flexible piece of silicone that prevents baby from having direct contact with your skin). And fourth, I should give it some time.

After helping me get her appropriately latched on for about 15 minutes, she concluded that things would start looking up as soon as my cracked, bloody nipples healed. Probably in a few days. Yay?

This evening, I fed Maeve from the boob tap and after struggling slightly for a few minutes to get her latched on, she settled in for a painful feeding. Not painful like yesterday, but still sore. Then I tried the nipple shield and it rocked my world. Sore, but no pain. Alle-freaking-luia.

Afterward I applied the new nipple cream and I am pretty sure the sky opened up and brought me to a new level of consciousness because the improvement in just two hours was like night and day. I want to make out with you, Dr. Newman. Call me. Love you.

Maeve wasn't bothered by the silicone sheath on her food source, so maybe we're on to something. I have very high hopes. In the meantime, I have new respect for pumping moms. Holy shit is that annoying -- you spend 15 minutes pumping, then 15 minutes feeding, then you have to go clean everything and put it all away and store the milk and an hour later at 4 a.m., you can finally go back to sleep. Or, you can stay up with the baby sleeping on your chest while you watch the dudes on This Old House install a new bathroom fan on the roof of a house in 10 minutes flat. If you are in need of such a project, I feel confident I can do it for you. At cost.

And sorry for anyone who came here looking for pictures of my new baby and instead found themselves armed with more knowledge of my nipples than they ever dreamed possible.

The whole fam-damily

Jack and Emmie met Maeve today. They were so excited they could barely contain themselves.



Maeve was the gracious newcomer, not interrupting or talking too much about herself. Emmie greeted her with inquisitiveness about her background, where she grew up and tried to shove a hat on her head after politely shaking her foot rather than her hand. Jack wholeheartedly welcomed her with kisses and handshakes before showing her who was boss with a few ill-timed, mostly harmless whacks. He blamed her for his unfortunate incarceration in his room.

There were sibling gifts exchanged, which always breaks the ice, and everyone wondered how Maeve knew Jack liked Diego and Emmie liked babies. Maeve was pleased to receive her rattle and lovey, and asked how they could have known she needed both.

We're a five-family now. Let the fun begin.

Introducing Maeven Anne

Snarky Daddy kept you all abreast of the situation yesterday, but we wanted to formally introduce you all to Maeven Anne. She didn't want to wait, busting into the world after four hours of labor and no pushing in all her 7-pound-9-ounce, 20-inch glory.

We're all doing fine and can't wait for Maeve to meet her big brother and sister tomorrow at home. She's breastfeeding like a champ and sleeping in long stretches.

Our family is complete and we couldn't be more proud!

Round Three

And we meet again... you may remember me from such famous blog posts as the Live-Blog of Baby #2 or Weekend Alone with the Kids... or maybe as SnarkyDaddy. So here you go... the final installment of the live-blog birth extravaganza...

3:00pm - Amy arrives home from picking up her parents at the train station to inform me her water has broke. She dropped a gallon or so on the sidewalk in front of our place. It is probably frozen by now, so be careful if you're walking past our place. If you slip and fall, you can probably sue her ass. I know a good attorney.

3:10 - I'm pretty sure Amy decided to break her water today because it's Sunday and I'm watching football. So now I’m left with the ultimate of moral dilemmas – who needs my support more today – my wife who is about to give birth, or my fantasy football team. I explain to Amy that she's going to have to wait a little bit - the Saints-Redskins game is in the fourth quarter and the undefeated Saints are losing and it's really important that I see what happens. I was somewhat expecting a quick slap in the face, but forgot who I'm dealing with. Water breaking to Amy does not signal jump in the car and head to the hospital, it's simply an indication it’s time to take a shower, put on a little make-up, do up the hair – not like throw it in a pony tail – we’re talking full blow drying and flat iron. One might think she was about to get married, not delivering a baby.

3:30 - So the big question for me is whether I should just put Amy in a cab or drop her off at the hospital myself? I mean, I'm certainly not going to go to the hospital for this one. Her birthing a child is a pretty regular occurrence now. And it’s not like I go along with Amy when she gets her haircut... or her nails done... or her teeth cleaned. Those are all regular occurrences, which birthing children we can now categorize as a regular occurrence as well. So, I'm thinking taxi over driving her - I mean, first of all, its cold outside, so why should I have to deal with that? Or I guess I could compromise and drop her off at the El. That way I'm putting forth a little more effort than the cab by driving her three blocks. I will probably score some major points with her that way. Plus the El is totally environmentally friendly. So if she even thinks about complaining about it, I can just bring up global warming and what can she really say then?

3:35 - Apparently Amy doesn't even care about global warming - She wants me to drive her all the way to the hospital. Who is this person I married? I don't even know her anymore. Well, when the cute little baby Polar Bears go extinct, we all know who to blame - SnarkyMommy.

3:40 – Amy still has to flat iron her hair and she is having contractions every five minutes. I tell her to forget her hair and let’s hit the road, but she insists. At this rate, I won’t be missing any football… I’ll be delivering the baby in the living room.

4:00 - We’re finally in the car… and the contractions are getting painful. We haul ass to the hospital and as we pull up I notice the free parking spot right in front – 30 feet from the front door. That spot is never open! Never in the history of the hospital! Clearly Amy isn’t going to expect me to pay $20 to park when there is a perfectly beautiful free parking spot steps from the hospital doors. “I take it you still want to valet” I say. “YES!” Amy screams. The contractions are coming on a little quicker and more painfully than they were supposed to according to the Amy play book. But when we pull up to the hospital doors, there isn’t a valet in sight. “what do you want me to do, just leave the car parked here?” I ask. “Just park it quick” I help her from the car, put the car in reverse back down the ramp to secure the best parking spot at the hospital. Looking back on this day, I’m not sure what I’ll be happier about… the birth of our third child or parking spot I snagged.

I’m thinking the parking spot. I mean, I’ve had two babies before this… but I’ve never had a rock star parking spot like this.

4:10 - So here we are back at Illinois Masonic. If you recall the last live blog, this place has got itself a little bit of a hand washing issue, but I'll get to that in a little bit. First I have to point out that since our daughter was born Northwestern opened up itself a brand spankin new maternity hospital that is more of a five star resort than it is a baby birthing facility. Despite the fact that the hospital rooms have 24 hour room service with a big fat menu, in-room spa services, and high definition flat screen TV's with a video game system in each room, SnarkyMommy elected for this place that was last updated in 1962. A hospital room there feels more like you're staying in a room at the W hotel... except with no real privacy as people keep barging in your room every 5 minutes. Oh, and except for babies popping out all over the place.

I mean if we were there I could be playing Modern Warfare II on Xbox 360 right now and protecting the world from terrorists. Then I wouldn't have to be involved in the birthing process at all. I mean... what's more important... dropping out a kid or saving the world from terrorists? Yeah, I thought so...

4:15 – We arrive in Triage and the contractions are coming on quick and painful. She looks at me and says “I don’t know if I can do this” as she moans. I ask if there is anything as I can do and she tells me there isn’t. So I figure I need to get to blogging, so I open the laptop only to have the nurse come in and say “maybe you could talk to your wife instead of being on the computer.” This nurse clearly knows us too well already - Amy asks me the same question every day. But right now Amy actually wants me on the computer. I turn to Amy and say “do you want me to talk to you?” Amy gives me an emphatic “No!” So let’s recap… the nurse already hates me, Amy apparently doesn’t want me around… must mean it’s time to check my fantasy football scores.

4:40 – Amy is writhing in pain. The contractions are every minute and last a minute. Amy is screaming to the nurse “please, just get me the epidural”. She responds “We will, we just need to fill out some forms, do your IV, take some blood, send the blood to the lab, wait for it to get back to make sure your platelet counts are alright for anesthesia.” Amy looks at me and cries “I don’t think I’m going to make it.” The nurse immediately then turns to me and says “this is totally normal, she’s going to be fine.” I asked Amy for the hundredth time if there was anything I could do for her. She says “get me the upstairs to Delivery so I can get the epidural” At this point Amy’s screaming in pain every other minute has got everyone scurrying to get her upstairs. I do the only thing I can think of - I believe it’s the universal sign of empathy when standing next to someone in pain - I grabbed Amy’s hand so she could squeeze it.

Now I know what you’re thinking readers. You want to know how I was handling all this. And, considering I didn’t even know the score of the Cowboys-Giants game, I think I was holding up pretty well. But I have to tell you… she squeezed my hand awfully hard. It has a little throbbing in it as I type this right now. Maybe they should give me the epidural.

4:55 – We’re on our way to Delivery. The nurses push Amy and the gurney on the elevator and push the button to go up. Nothing. She pushes it again… nothing. Amy is screaming in pain. I am giving the nurses evil looks. The nurse screams out to another nurse for some special key to allow us to get to the right floor. The elevator finally moves… down instead of up.

5:15 – The anesthesiologist is in the delivery room within 10 minutes. For something that at one point seemed like might take another hour, comes surprisingly quickly. Amy has continued to scream in pain every time a contraction comes… which is like every other minute. They ask me to leave so the epidural procedure can be performed. They didn’t have to twist my arm too much… I leave for the calmness of the waiting room.

5:45 – I return to the room and Amy is a new woman. She is relaxed and joking. Oh, Mr. Epidural, how we love you so!

6:00 – So the epidural appears to have relaxed Amy a little too much… 30 minutes ago she was screaming in pain and now she is lying to the doctors and nurses. She is filling out some paperwork to donate here cord blood and came to the questions "Have you traded goods, services, or cash for sex in the past five years?" She had the audacity to answer "no". Apparently she is in some serious denial. Last year there was this expensive pair of shoes she really wanted and she asked me if I would buy them for her. I told her sure, if she did something for me first.... yada, yada, yada... she had herself the shoes.

And yes, I did yada the best part.

If that wasn't goods for sex transaction, I don't know what is.

6:30 – So not anything exciting to report. The epidural is doing its thing. Amy is reading a book. The contractions continue every minute or two. They haven’t checked her dilation since we were in Triage when she was 4 centimeters.

So to get back to this hospital and its hand washing - they not only have themselves a serious hand washing issue here but they have chosen to share that with the world. To set this up, here is what I happened during the birthing of baby #2 two years ago:

"Get this. While I was waiting in the hall there is this bulletin board with a chart titled “Hand washing Hygiene” and this hospital is at a whopping 40% with a goal of 60%. Three thoughts come to mind after seeing this: 1) There are some people with some dirty-ass hands at this hospital 2)Their goal was 60% - what 70% would have been asking too much?. 3) They chose to make this information public? 4) How do they collect this information - are there hidden cameras in the bathroom? Ok, so 4 thoughts come to mind, not 3... I got a little aggressive."

And so here I am - I have returned to the scene of the crime. So the burning question in everybody's mind has to be... did they do it? Did they wise up and remove these embarrassing stats from the hallway?

6:45 – Amy’s hair was not forgotten before we left the house, but our camera and video camera were. As I leave the delivery room to meet my Mom in the waiting room to get the cameras, I stop in the hall to see if there is an update to the hand washing saga. Sure enough, it’s up in the hall for everyone to enjoy.

And good news, they are up to 75%! That is quite an improvement over 40%.

Last time I was kind of hoping the baby would miss the doctor’s hands and fall to the floor – as the floor was almost certain to be cleaner than the doctor’s hands. But this time – the odds are in my favor – there is a decent shot his hands will be clean.

7:15 – Amy is feeling some pressure and tells the nurse she feels like it’s time and the nurse doesn’t believer her. Amy informs the nurse she had better get the doctor. The doctor on call comes in to inform Amy that her regular doctor is on her way from home to deliver the baby, and Amy shouldn’t push until she is there. Amy says “It feels like the baby is there, you’d better check”. Sure enough, we have ourselves a head. Furthermore, without Amy pushing at all the baby is making its way out. The nurse and doctor scramble to get everything ready.

7:22 - Five minutes later, without a single push from Amy, out pops Maeven Anne. She’ll go by Maeve. Weighing in at 7 lbs. 9 oz. and 20 inches long. I have to tell you, she’s a gorgeous baby and she was worth every ounce of pain I went through to get her out. And worth the pain Amy went through as well I’d, although it is difficult to really know which of us had a more grueling time.

Well there you have it folks. In all honesty, this proves once again that my wife is absolutely AMAZING. After witnessing the pain that Amy was going through, all I know is if it was me pushing out babies we would have exactly ZERO children… I could never have dealt with pain like that. I could barely deal with her having pain like that. And I have to say, Amy retains her MILF status after baby #3. The best friend a guy could have for a wife and now three beautiful kids… I am officially the luckiest guy in the world.

Maeve, as Jack and Emmie can attest, you have a superstar for a Mom. You are in great hands. Now, if only your Dad can get his act together.

Sponge-worthiness

Still pregnant. Nothing new to report.

However, in keeping with the theme of posting about my marriage this week, I have yet another story to share about the joys of matrimony. I know, can you believe it? I mean Josh is perfect in every way so it is puzzling how these things keep cropping up.

I have a major major MAJOR pet peeve when it comes to the house. I can't stand sponges. They're unsanitary, they're disgusting when wet, they hold smells and the site of them makes me gag. As a general rule, I don't use them for anything. If I have to clean a pan, I grab some Barkeepers Friend and a rag and get it done. And on the bizarre and unlikely chance I do use one to shine the sink, I throw it away immediately. Out of sight, out of mind. Although I know in the back of my mind that its lurking in the garbage in all its slimy glory, so I quickly take the whole bag outside because my God, it could crawl out of the can and end up on my face in the middle of the night.

Despite my fear of zombie sponges, for some reason, we have a Costco-sized package under the sink. And Josh used one for God only knows what this morning before I got up. So when I came downstairs and grabbed a glass of water, I was greeted by a yellow and green damp piece of disgustingness on the bottom of the sink.

I told him the last time he did this (which was just last week) that it would be grounds for divorce if he did it again. Guess who was surprised when I served his ass the papers this morning? He can't say I didn't warn him. I believe I might have threatened to punch him in the face as well. Can't be sure on that, what with the pregnancy-induced amnesia, but it would be totally justified in any case.

Seriously. I am about to deliver his third child and he can't throw the damn sponge in the garbage? We have 11 billionty more under the sink, it's not like he needs to conserve. Plus, once you use a sponge, it gets all gross and nasty and germy, so why would you save it anyway? These are questions I do not have the answers to.

There is currently no task in this house I would consider "sponge-worthy" and I am thinking about blacklisting them completely. If nothing else, it could save my marriage. I don't want to have to raise three kids by myself because someone couldn't curb his sponge use. Really, you have to take a stand somewhere. This is mine.

Third down and five to go

I went to my weekly OB appointment today expecting to hear my numerous contractions have done absolutely nothing to my cervix and that I would be pregnant for the next 17 years.

Imagine my surprise when the doctor pronounced me dilated to just about 3 cm! Well boy howdy, if that isn't encouraging, I don't know what is. I guess the every-eight-minutes-for-hours-on-end Braxton Hicks contractions really have done something after all.

This makes me so much happier about inducing on Monday. I had been worried I would still be hanging out at 1 cm, which would mean my cervix wasn't up for being pried open by Pitocin and I was second-guessing the whole idea.

But now, being 3 cm, I feel confident my cervix will lie down and submit in all its incompetent glory. Or, it could be coerced by some regular contractions all on its own before Monday arrives. Because there's no way if I am at 3 cm and contracting regularly that they send me home after a trip to Labor and Delivery. So that's also encouraging.

In other odd news, I have gained exactly the same amount of weight with all three pregnancies. It's freaky. So I am guessing WeeBey is going to be another tall, skinny baby like its siblings. Also, the heartbeat was 125 beats per minute today, leading me to believe it's a boy. I was convinced for months on end it was a girl and in the last month, I have done a 180 and am glad we left the baby's room blue.

That's about all I got for ya today. I woke up at 4 a.m. because I couldn't fall back asleep after peeing for the fourth time and now can't form coherent thoughts, much less get them down in witty format on my blog.

In the meantime, look at me. I clearly ate a basketball for lunch.

You light up my life

Can someone please tell me what the purpose of putting our Christmas lights on a timer is if my husband is going to go outside and unplug them every night?

This weekend, my nearly-38-weeks-pregnant ass put up all the outdoor decorations BY MYSELF. Josh was inside on the computer. He did actually come outside for something when I was just about done and I asked him would he be a dear and throw the extension cord down over the porch so I could plug it in.

As I plugged it in, I looked up with excitement to see how very very pretty they were and instead saw Josh's smirk.

"Looks like they don't work," he said. "Did you test them?"

"No, I didn't test them," I hissed. "They worked just fine when I took them down last year. God damn it, now I have to go buy new ones and re-do them."

"Let me know how that works out for you," he said as he shut the door behind him.

One trip to CVS and four hours later, I was stringing the lights by myself again. This time in the dark. He's nothing if not consistent in his holiday decorating aversions. This time, I plugged the lights in first. And yes, they worked.

I proudly told him that I had plugged them into a timer. It was set to come on at 5 p.m. and shut off at 5 a.m. You know, the hours of darkness in Chicago.

Except Josh thinks the lights don't need to be on in the middle of the night. I disagree. I think if it's dark, they create a festive atmosphere. He thinks they ratchet up the electric bill. He has noooooo problem leaving his three laptops on all night, but two measly strings of Christmas lights and he's going all Al Gore on my ass.

Because he unplugs the lights every night, it means I have to go out and plug them IN every afternoon. And we all know how I loathe opening the front door to get the mail, so you can imagine how much I enjoy going outside to fish around for the end of the extension cord and reattach it to the lights.

This is what no one tells you about marriage. It's not for richer or for poorer, it's for annoying or more annoying. Now excuse me while I duct tape the extension cord to the lights so he can't possibly remove it.

First-class lazy

When I was younger, and I mean when I was living alone in my mid-20s, I always wondered how people didn't pounce on the mailbox the minute they got home. Who knew what was in store for you? Sure, bills, but there could be other cool stuff too. And I wanted to know right that second what was in the mailbox. And this was before the advent of Amazon and eBay meant packages were arriving almost daily.

But now I am a crotchety old lady who apparently can't be bothered with the mailbox. I can see it from the living room window. I only have to walk down the five porch steps to reach it. But I can't be bothered to go out and collect the envelopes.

For crying out loud, I see the mail lady deliver it most days and I just think, "Huh. The mail's here."

Every day when Josh comes home, he asks if I got the mail. The answer, every day, is, "Oh, no. Sorry. Can you grab it?"

If I do manage to somehow grab the mail, I just throw it on the edge of the island in the kitchen and wait for Josh to go through it. It's not like I don't know my credit card balance, especially since Josh is so helpful and monitors my spending online daily and will notify me immediately when I am 3 cents over my budget, so why even open the statements? I also don't need anymore Target catalogues, you know, since I am there once a week. And don't get me started on the real estate postcards we get. Why no, I did NOT know that you, random Realtor I don't know, sold a condo down the street last month. For $500,000? You don't say! That's admirable in this housing market. Great work.

Amazon delivers packages and I don't even open them, either. I know what's in them because I ordered them, or they're some stupid computer crap for Josh, so what's the point? I just leave them stacked on the counter. This is the ultimate laziness, folks. Not to mention, what if someone actually sent me a gift and I didn't know it because I didn't open the box? Unfortunately, I just can't be bothered.

Hopefully with the holiday season upon us, I will be so curious to see everyone's unintentionally hilarious Christmas card photos and pages-long updates on what an 8-year-old saw at the museum on a day trip back in June and what good old third-cousin-twice-removed-and thrice-divorced-and-remarried George is doing in his new job at the DMV, that I won't be able to contain the urge to run out the door and accost the mail lady when she arrives each day.

Or, I'll just let it pile up on the counter until the mountain threatens to topple us all and then I might get around to opening it.