Pain and suffering

As you might imagine, having someone dig around in your cervix with a large pair of tweezers for a piece of surgical wire without the use of anesthesia is really not a fun way to spend your typical afternoon.

Yet, it's what I found myself doing shortly after lunch today. And as you might imagine, it did NOT feel like sunshine and unicorns. In fact, it felt nothing like that at all.

For both of my previous cerclage removals, I remember there being a lot of pain. With Jack, I was just so excited to be getting off bedrest after four months that I gritted my teeth and got through it. With Emmie, I just dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand and counted the holes in the ceiling tile above me. With this third one, I actually thought I might die.

All right, perhaps a slight exaggeration, but this time, the stitch did not want to come out. My OB was prepared for this possibility, knowing that it took a great deal of effort with the last cerclage, but I don't think either of us was expecting it to be as bad as it was.

There were three separate minutes-long attacks on the damn thing, the last of which culminated in my ass leaving the table at the exact moment she was finally able to cut it. It was embedded so far in that she just could not get a good grip on it without several tries.

My doctor was sweating, I was sweating and Josh was trying not to look while also trying to appear sympathetic to my plight. I was so busy being in pain I didn't even care that he was on the damn computer the whole time. And no, he wasn't live-blogging my removal either. I think he might have been making his Christmas list.

After much apologizing on my OB's part and much deep breathing and hand clenching on my part, she pronounced it the most difficult cerclage removal she had ever done. But it was over and I couldn't have been more pleased.

My cervix, however, was very unhappy and showed its displeasure by bleeding profusely. Not to be left out of the fun, my uterus decided to get in on the act by contracting. Repeatedly. With great intensity.

My doctor checked my cervix, which was SO AWESOME right after the ridiculousness that had just ensued, and she said I was a loose 1 cm. They wanted to monitor my contractions and see if they caused any more dilation, and if not, then I would be free to go home.

Lucky me, I laid on the gurney for two hours and read "Superfreakonomics" and my contractions eventually got less painful and less frequent. There was no change to my dilation, so off I went.

I am so glad this is over and will never, ever have to happen again. As my OB was digging in the delicate tissue of my cervix, I announced I would never go through natural childbirth. Ever. No way. Nope. Can't imagine worse pain than what I just experienced, and I know natural childbirth would be way more painful, so I will just say, "No, thank you."

And now, I can pick up my children and swim and run around the block and generally act like a normal pregnant woman. Except for the fact I am 36 weeks pregnant and don't really want to do anything of those things, well, maybe pick up my kids because they've missed that the last 22 weeks.

Instead, I am hanging out and waiting to go into labor. Hopefully in about two weeks.

Snarky contest!

After 22 long weeks of harboring a foreign object in my body, not picking my kids up and generally having some sort of low-level worries in the back of my mind at all times, my cerclage will be removed tomorrow.

On the other hand, that also means I now have no excuse for not vacuuming, scrubbing the floors or carrying groceries. Shhh, don't tell Josh. I am going to try to keep up the charade for the next six months. I mean you totally can't scrub floors until you're at least six months postpartum, right?

So. In honor of the possible birth tomorrow, I announce the "Guess The Snarky Birth" contest. You have from now until tomorrow (Nov. 20) at 1 p.m. CT to make your guesses. The timestamp on your comment serves as proof of you getting in before the deadline. You guess the birth date, followed by sex and weight. Winner takes home $50 worth of Snarky Babies merchandise (designs of your choice)! Don't have kids? We have adult shirts, too. Or pet designs. Something for everyone!

To be clear, you need to first guess the correct date of the birth and any ties will be decided with a correct guess of the sex of WeeBey; if there's still a tie, winner decided by the guess of the weight. You have to come closest without going over in both the date and weight categories.

Some valuable information I will share with you all:
* My cerclage removal is tomorrow at 36 weeks 3 days; actual due date is Dec. 15.
* With Jack, I went 17 days after removal.
* With Emmie I went 12 days after removal.
* If I do not go into labor on my own, I will likely be induced Dec. 7.
* Jack weighed 6lbs 11oz at 38 weeks 4 days.
* Emmie weighed 6lbs 8oz at 38 weeks 2 days.
* My belly measured 35 weeks at yesterday's appointment.
* The head is so low, my OB can feel it when she checks my cervix.
* My OB will be out of the country from Nov. 28-Dec. 4 (Hello, karma).

On your marks, get set, guess!

(No purchase necessary to enter, but it would be nice. Snarky Family and employees of SnarkyBabies are allowed to enter, but I might not actually give them the prize if they win. Contest might only be valid in states that allow marrying your 14-year-old cousin, but if you're cool, I will give you the prize anyway. If you're looking for legal jargon, you're out of luck. I have an attorney friend who will save me from any litigation anyway, so don't worry. Winner's blog (if he/she has one) will get a shout-out on snarkymommy.com as part of the prize. If you don't like me, and don't like my blog, you can still guess. But why would you want to?)

Wax on, wax off

At today's weekly OB appointment, my doctor did a cervical exam and pronounced there was no change from last week. Meaning my slothful behavior paid off and laying on the couch for a week not only resulted in me losing a pound this week (go me at 36 weeks!), but also in thwarting my cervix from dilating.

That means all systems are go for the big cerclage removal this Friday. I couldn't be more excited to have someone insert a speculum, dig around in the tissue of my cervix with a pair of tweezers and snip a 5 mm piece of wire with a very sharp pair of scissors. Oh, and all without the aid of painkillers or nerve blocks. I am SO looking forward to it!

In addition to the cervix feel-up I got this morning, I was able to add on the awesome fun of a bikini wax this afternoon. Did I mention this was a bikini wax when I am 36 weeks pregnant?

Now, you might think to yourself, "Why in the hell would she subject herself to that kind of nonsense when no one is even going to notice?" The answer would be because when you're 36 weeks pregnant, you can't see your own feet, much less your groin. I have no idea what is going on down there, so I needed to entrust the care of it to a professional.

My waxer is someone I have seen before, so it's not like we're strangers, but there's just something about exposing your entire bottom half, a bottom half that is swollen beyond the point of believability, to another person. Christ, not even Josh has seen me that naked in the last few weeks. But then again, I didn't pay him $50, so really, he was under no obligation to do so. The waxing lady was.

As I assumed the position on the chair, I assured her we didn't need to get crazy.

"We're not going on a beach honeymoon here, I'm pushing a kid out, so no need to go all Brazilian on my ass," I assure her. "Let's just make it presentable so we don't frighten anyone in the delivery room."

The area in question is, how shall we say, a little more sensitive in the last months of pregnancy. Meaning something that could be routine in non-pregnant times takes on a heightened sense of agony when with child. Agony meaning one's ass could theoretically leap several inches off the table when the wax is unceremoniously ripped from one's sensitive, flower-like skin.

And discussing your Thanksgiving dinner plans during this procedure will not take your mind off of what is actually happening. In fact, you might develop some strange sort of PTSD when it comes to gravy. Let's hope that's not the case.

If anyone wants to hit the beach, I am so in. Just let me know and I can dig my ever-so-fetching maternity swimsuit out of my drawer. The maternity swimsuit I bought when I was pregnant with Jack. The maternity swimsuit I have never worn.

I really hope the residents, med students, doctors, nurses and other 57 people who always attend a delivery appreciate my efforts.

The finish line's in sight

At last week's OB appointment, I discovered that I am about 1 cm dilated and WeeBey's head is right there, ready to bust out. I could have told you that, based on the events of the previous few days, which included massive amounts of pressure and more than a few rounds of contractions.

But to actually hear that I was about 1 cm -- with my cerclage in place -- was more than a little scary. Sure, women who are having their third babies walk around dilated much earlier than first-timers, but when you have a stitch holding you closed, you don't really want to hear that your cervix is still trying valiantly to do the old open sesame.

Then we discussed the cerclage removal, scheduled for this coming Friday. I will be 36 weeks 3 days pregnant at that point and while babies born at this point are fine, especially those who have improved their batting average by 100 points thanks to steroid shots, I really don't want a 36-weeker. Studies show breastfeeding is harder at 36 weeks and while that might be the least of my worries, to me, it's a huge factor. Breastfeeding is my thing. I do it well. And to have problems with feeding the baby with two other kids to focus on, well, it's not something I want to deal with.

So I asked if we might be able to delay the removal to the next week, at the 37-week mark. Nope. Not an option. My OB is concerned these contractions and pressure will only continue and the danger of tearing through the stitch while in labor would be greater. And if there's one thing you probably don't want to experience, it's your cervix being shredded like a topping for tacos.

She seems to think I might dilate further immediately upon removing the stitch. In the past, I have always had my cerclage removed in the labor and delivery triage department and once it's out, they monitor me for an hour and send me home. (I say this like I am Michelle Duggar and have birthed 18 kids. I should punch myself.) Of course I dilate somewhat -- we're messing with my cervix at 36 weeks. You start doing that and you're going to cause contractions and dilation. But my OB said if I dilate to 2-3 cm, then they'll keep me for a few hours, just in case. I could tell by the look on her face that she seems to think that will be the case. I refuse to believe that and am plugging my ears with my fingers saying, "Lalalalala I can't heeeaaarrrrrrr yoooouuuuuuuuuu." Mature.

My OB also said if I am dilated any further at my regular appointment this Wednesday, she won't even wait until Friday to take the stitch out, it will come out right then and there. To ensure that doesn't happen, mostly because Josh will be out of town on business until Wednesday night, I have been lying around on the couch doing as little as possible. When Josh is home, he handles the kid duty and I lie around timing contractions and taking Procardia if they get too close together. Emmie is with Grandma for the next two days since Josh is out of town, so I am taking it easy. That means I am lying on the couch reading and screwing around online. It's hard work, people, hard work.

The prevailing theory seems to be -- BIG SHOCKER -- I am not going to make it to my Dec. 15 due date. That's a giant duh, considering this is my third baby and I have never made it to my due date before. I am of the mind I will make it to December. Scratch that, I am determined to make it to December by sheer force of will. If I have to lie around with my legs tied closed, I will do it. Josh's work project ends Nov. 30 and I don't want him working when the new baby arrives. We're having a houseful of people for Thanksgiving, and I would like to enjoy my turkey and pie without having to catch any stray amniotic fluid in the gravy boat. And how cool would it be to make it to my induction date of Dec. 7? We could totally name the baby Pearl!

In preparation for Baby Watch 2009 to begin this Friday, I have a million things to attend to this week, including a girls night dinner, book club, a pre-baby bikini wax, parent-teacher conferences and the organization of the last year of family photos stored online. These are critical to my sanity and well-being and the baby can not come until they are complete. I think we're safe, but you never know with these crazy kids.

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!

The perfect storm

I want you all to be the first to know: WeeBey is coming Dec. 4. I know this because the perfect storm is brewing and all the pieces will fall into place causing me to spontaneously combust and go into labor on that exact day.

At yesterday's OB appointment, my doctor and I took a gander at the calendar to see when this cerclage will be coming out. I will be 36 weeks Nov. 17. But I like to have my cerclages removed on Fridays because there is a small chance all those jazz-hands on my cervix and the whole "tugging the shit out of your cervix while trying really hard to get the wire out" business can cause me to go into labor. And if that's the case, then I have Josh around for the whole weekend to help me play a rousing round of "Is that a contraction?" instead of off cavorting with his friends at some sporting event. Or working. Far away. Out of town.

So that makes the removal date Nov. 20. Jack was born 19 days after my cerclage came out; Emmie arrived 12 days afterward. So let's split the difference and make it 14 days for WeeBey, even though everyone knows the more babies you have, the earlier they come. So that puts us at Dec. 4.

Jack's school calendar shows he has that day off. Of course he does. Because I will surely go into labor with two children at home. That's just how it goes for me. Even more distressing, my OB will be out of the country that entire week. Now, that's not a huge deal. Considering my chance of having my own doctor deliver a spontaneous birth (that is, one that's not induced) is one in seven, I wasn't counting on it anyway. But it would have been nice to have a shot at it.

I am also predicting a freak early December blizzard to coincide with all of this other shit. And Josh will probably be working in India. And the freak blizzard will mean I can't open the gate because there will be 10 feet of snow in the way, which means I won't be able to drive myself to the hospital and I'll be dressing two kids in snowpants and boots and dragging them by the hands, uphill, both ways, in snow drifts to the El. And I'll probably forget my El card and have to come up with cash to pay the damn fare. And I never carry cash.

There's no way I am exaggerating this in the slightest.

Mark your calendars kids -- I am 27 weeks and that stitch comes out in nine weeks. NINE WEEKS. To say I am not ready is a gross understatement. But I guess we have new crib bedding suitable for either sex, we have full wardrobes of boy and girl clothes in storage, we have a girl's name and two boy's names picked out and I have my boobs. I mean the boobs are all we need, really. We can go without a name, but baby needs to eat. So maybe we are ready.

In-cyst-ing on it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shutting the hell up now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A viable option

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a ...

With both Jack and Emmie, I was so hot to trot to find out the gender that I scheduled ultrasounds at 15 and 16 weeks, respectively. And both times we were rewarded with the money shot, allowing us to go home and start buying shit. Correction: allowing us to go home, call the grandparents and have THEM start buying shit.

But this time I decided not to find out the sex of the baby. Me, the ultimate planner and plotter and need-to-knower chose to have it be a surprise in the delivery room. And I stuck to it, despite protestations from my better half. Josh kept saying he was going to find out, whether I did or not. I kept saying there was no way he could keep a secret like that. He scoffed.

As we left for the appointment, I told him I didn't want a scene in front of the tech and that we were most definitely not finding out. He said he was. We went into the room and things got underway and the tech asked if we were finding out and I said no.

As we were leaving, Mr. Smirky McSmirkyson shot me a look and I asked him what was so amusing. He cocked an eyebrow.

"I know what it is," he said smugly.

"No you don't," I sighed.

"Yes I do. I have been reading up on how to read ultrasounds and I know what I saw," he said.

Considering the tech never took the angle I know she had to take to get the shot between the legs, I am confident he has no idea what in the hell he is yammering about. And even if he did see the shot, there is no way with a moving picture and no knowledge of what she was even scanning that he could have seen anything remotely resembling reproductive organs. Even I, who have seen many a "hamburger" and "turtle" on an ultrasound screen, couldn't decipher them without the assistance of the tech showing me exactly where to look.

Josh can think he knows the sex all he wants. I am sure he doesn't actually know, and in the end, he has a 50 percent chance of being right or wrong. But if you want his take on the whole thing, by all means, head on over to his blog.

The ultrasound itself went well. WeeBey was kicking and stretching and waving, but of course I can't feel most of the antics because I have an anterior placenta, which is a fancy way of saying it's like the baby is kicking as hard as it can into a pillow. I don't feel a whole lot yet, just a few kicks here and there towards the sides of my belly.

We also had a gander at the ole' cervix and it was looking long and strong. I was measuring 1.6 cm above the stitch with no funneling and 1.8 below the stitch, for a grand total of 3.4 cm. Ta-da! Just inside the low end of normal and definitely a great measurement for my shitass incompetent cervix.

The tech spent a great deal of time looking around at the baby, 45 minutes to be exact. Then she had the doctor come in and he wanted to take a look as well. Of course there was some mixup and my MFM was supposed to be in today but he had a conflict so I had to see someone else. And he was great; awesome in fact.

As he moved the wand over the baby's head, he said he wanted to let us know about something rather than just put it in the report. He said the baby has a small cyst in it's head called a choroid plexus cyst. Paraphrasing what the doctor told us (via a Google search), the choroid plexus is an area of the brain that is not involved thinking or personality. Rather, the choroid plexus makes a fluid that protects and nourishes the brain and spinal cord. When a fluid-filled space is seen in the choroid plexus during an ultrasound, it is called a choroid plexus cyst (CPC). Between 1 and 3 percent of all fetuses will manifest a CPC at 16 to 24 weeks of pregnancy.

Sometimes, these cysts can be an indicator of Trisomy 18, a genetic disorder. But in the absence of other markers on ultrasound, these CPCs are not a big deal and will go away on their own by the end of the second trimester.

The doctor said he saw evidence that WeeBey's cyst is breaking up already and the baby had no other indicators of Trisomy 18 such as a heart defect, clenched fists or foot abnormalities. Coupled with the fact my blood test results showed the baby has a 1-in-10,000 chance of having Trisomy 18, the doctor said he's sure the cyst will go away on its own in a few weeks. He said I should come back in six weeks for another ultrasound to confirm that, but not to worry because its not a huge deal.

And I actually am not worried. All other signs point to everything being normal. And in my book, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

But again, my big ultrasound is filled with drama and intrigue. I swear, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Pop, pop, pop

This morning I had another OB appointment. You might be thinking, "Why Amy, didn't you just go to the OB? Don't women in the second trimester only go once a month?" That would be correct on both counts. But the high-risk pregnant ladies get seen more often, usually twice per month the whole way through.

The good news is that I didn't wait at all. I walked in, peed in the cup, the nurse was in and out and my doctor was in the room 30 seconds later. Solid. She didn't even want to cop a feel of my cervix because I wasn't having any alarming symptoms.

The bad news is that I gained FIVE POUNDS in the last two weeks. I almost fell off the scale when I saw that and crumpled my face into a look of extreme distaste. The nurse asked what was wrong and I asked her to flip to Volume 2 of my chart to see what I weighed at this point with my Emmie pregnancy. (As an aside, I kid you not when I say my chart is as thick as a phonebook. They need rubberbands to keep it all together. I asked the nurse if she needed a cart to get it back to the room.)

It turns out that I weighed eight pounds less at 17 weeks with Emmie. And I started a little lighter this time, so that's even more depressing. Add in that I couldn't eat anything for the first 15 weeks and this is a conundrum.

Oh, but looking back I guess I was able to eat some things. Taco Bell, pizza, Taco Bell, macaroni and cheese, Taco Bell and Taco Bell. I guess mainlining cheese might not have been the best idea when it comes to pregnancy fitness.

Although I believe the five pounds might have all gone into my boobs because we've hit the porn-star stage of this pregnancy. A few weeks ago I was lamenting that I hadn't had any change at all and then badaboom, Josh was ogling me like a teenager again.

Lucky for Josh this recent weight gain means the really fun stage of my pregnancy begins for him. This is known as the "Josh, look how huge I am" stage. He haaaates this part. Because every week I whine about how much bigger I am and how I am gaining too much weight and how I will never be the same again. And he just can't win because if he says that yes, I am huge, then I cry because he thinks I am fat. And if he says no, I look fine, then I think he's lying. Mostly he just makes a face, ignores me and then I get annoyed because he isn't paying attention to me. It's fun to be Josh when I am pregnant. Now I know why he travels.

No news is good news

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep-away summer cramp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hand-stitched craftmanship

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

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

Needle in a haystack. Or my back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't they realize I am pregnant?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't blame pregnancy brain either

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long time, no see, doc

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

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

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

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

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

Now that THAT's out of the way...

Thank you all for the well-wishes. I am actually pretty excited about the whole thing, not the least of which is because I get to milk another high-risk pregnancy for the next seven months. (Also, one of the great parts about finding out you are nine weeks along is you just magically skip the first two months. Poof! They're gone.)

While this was a surprise, it was not unwanted. I had said since the night I delivered Emmie that I wanted one more baby. Josh was on the fence, but wasn't shutting the door on the issue. We decided if it happened, it happened. Apparently, it happened. Just as I was starting to think about wanting another. So it worked out spectacularly well for me. And yes, I know how lucky I am. I know there are plenty of women out there, including some everyday readers of this very blog, who would give anything to have a child. And I hope this same exact thing happens for them.

I didn't really get into the details of what's to come in my last post. I will go for a detailed ultrasound and genetic testing on June 4. Because I am the dreaded "Advanced Maternal Age" now at 35 years old, I get to undergo even more tests than normal. Which is fun. Because I don't have enough people poking their nose around my uterus during under-35 pregnancies.

Immediately after the ultrasound, I will meet with my Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist. This is the man I owe for bringing me my Jackie, safe and sound. And for making sure my Emily arrived without problems. I wouldn't dream of having anyone else perform my cerclage this time around either. Imagine my surprise to learn he had been elevated to the head of the department since I last pushed a child out of my body. Makes me feel even better, if that's possible.

My cerclage will be placed sometime the week after that. I have a wedding to attend, however, so I am angling to have it done the week of June 15, when I will be 14 weeks. I had it done with Emmie at 15 weeks, so right about the same time.

I have no idea what that means in terms of restrictions. I know last time I was prohibited from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, vaccuming/scrubbing the floors, swimming and exercising. I imagine things will be much the same this time. They better be. Because since Josh won't let me hire a cleaning lady, I get to boss him around about how the housework should be done. I also hear sleeping in until 10 a.m. is mandatory for all women with preventative cerclages.

And for all of you who expressed concern about lumping the birthday in with Christmas, let me assure you it will not be an issue. While my birthday is a full month after Christmas, it was close enough that I would say, "Well, if I don't get (insert insanely popular gift from 1980s here) for Christmas, I want it for my birthday." My mom even instituted a rule that I could not talk about my birthday until Christmas was over. Emmie's is even closer, at just three weeks afterward. Knowing my body like I do, this baby will be born no later than the first week of December. I think we can safely say that is out of the "lumping in" timeframe.

Oh! Also. I am sick. Sick as a dog. And just like with both my kids, I get sick in the afternoon and it stretches to the evening. I am averse to sweets, crave salty and can't get enough macaroni and cheese and fish sticks. Just like the first two pregnancies. No puking, just constant nausea. Josh has been forced to work at home for the last two weeks because of some insane quarantine, which has been immensely helpful when I need to lie down and not hear about food for an hour or two before dinner time.

So there you have it. All the details you ever needed. You need to know more -- leave a comment with your question and I will address it for you.

Three times the blog material

I sat down to compose the first line of this post and after a few dozen deletes, decided to just come out with it.

I am pregnant. As in, having a third child.

(I hear crickets chirping, I can wait until you all pick yourselves up off the floor to go on.)

Ahh, you're back with me now. Trust me when I tell you, that was about the reaction I had when I found myself staring two pink lines in the face one morning. That, coupled with some "holy shits" and a few F-bombs.

Considering I had NO IDEA I was pregnant, and just taking the test because it was lying around and I was being stupid, my reaction was rather laid back. Josh's was similar, except with the bonus of me being able to see every last drop of blood drain from his face. Fact: Josh gets very pale when the entire contents of his bloodstream is pooled in his legs.

So we spent a few weeks getting used to the idea while I waited for a doctor's appointment. When the big day finally arrived last Friday, they said they would do a quick ultrasound in the office to date the pregnancy and after the standard bloodwork and paperwork, I would be on my merry way.

My quick ultrasound ended with the doctor telling me "I don't want to alarm you, but I definitely see two of something in there and I wouldn't go telling people you're having twins, but I think you need a real ultrasound as soon as possible next week." And she added that I was about seven weeks along.

I'm sorry, what? That's not possible. I mean sure, I am seven weeks along with ONE FREAKING BABY. Lalalalala, that's me covering my ears and not listening to this talk of "two" or "twins." I mean, have you met my cervix? It's a freaking Shrinky Dink. There is no way it could ever, not even a little bit, keep two children inside of me.

I am not sure how I had the strength to get up off the table and leave, but I did. I tried to schedule an ultrasound for Monday, but the scheduler had called in sick. Sorry, call on Monday. Oh my holy hell, I might be committed to a mental ward before Monday. And then wouldn't they feel bad? No? Oh, OK.

So I came home to tell Josh, who promptly died. I had to resuscitate him right in the living room -- good thing I know CPR -- and after I brought him back to life, he entered a catatonic state.

We spent the weekend properly freaking the eff out, but I kept insisting it was only one. I wasn't twice as sick. I wasn't twice as tired. And besides, I hadn't really pissed any diety or fate off that much lately, so there was no way they were trying to get back at me for something.

Monday morning, I called the nice ultrasound department at 9 a.m. That would be the office I have probably visited 50 times over the last four years. The one with the entire wing named after me, paid for by my insurance company. The nice receptionist said they could not even schedule an ultrasound until they had my chart for this pregnancy from my OB. Which is located one floor directly above them. And had been requested three days prior. Someone will call you back, she said.

An hour later, my panic levels rising, I called back to see if they had the records. Nope. I called my OB's office myself at that point and hysterically asked them to PLEASE. SEND. THE. DAMN. RECORDS.

Three hours after that, I had to go get my bloodwork done (I had forgotten my insurance card the week before) and I figured if I staged a sit-in at the ultrasound department, they couldn't ignore me. So I stopped by the office and alle-freaking-luia, they had the paperwork. I turned it on thick, explaining how I was freaking out and I brought a book -- look! a 700-page book! -- and was ready to wait as long as it took. The poor nurse took one look at my face and saw my desperation and said she could get me in an hour later.

When the tech called my name, I leaped out of my chair and made it to the door in a single step. Even in my pregnant state I'm like a gazelle. It's a gift. She said we were going to do this abdominally and I was sad for second, wishing for the dildocam. But whatever, she's the boss. There will plenty of those in a few weeks time anyway, I am not missing out.

Within two seconds of seeing my uterus on the screen, it was determined there was ONE embryo. One nine-week-old embryo wiggling it's arms and legs, with it's heart beating away at a solid 175 bpm. Yep, two weeks further along than we guessed, but very much all alone. (Due date: December 15)

I almost kissed the technician. I think she might have been taken aback, especially since I was thinking about using tongue. But come on, this woman just saved me from certain doom. I walked out of there on air.

When I arrived home and told Josh the joyous news, he looked relieved, but not entirely giddy, as I was. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, saying, "Josh, get on board! It could be so much worse."

And that my friends, is the mantra for this third pregnancy, "It could have been so much worse." The embryo will feel so special someday when it reads this blog.


A study in contrasts: Emmie is thrilled, Jack not so much.

I'm declaring this National Cervix Day

Three years ago today, a doctor stuck a needle in my back, sewed up my cervix, ordered me to bed for four months and told me all we could do was hope that my pregnancy proceded to a viable point. I was scared and nervous and hopeful.

Three years later, I have not one, but two successful cerclage babies. Thanks doc!

It's a weird anniversary to celebrate, but easy to remember because it all went down on Oct. 1. I'm still not sure what the appropriate gift is for an internal organ, however. Do I trot it out for dinner? Send it an e-card? Buy it an Xbox 360?

For all the times I have decried its competency and publicly belittled it, I must apologize. Today I celebrate the cervix! Perhaps declaring it National Cervix Day might be going a little too far, but I kind of like the idea. I know there are readers out there who have the same love/hate relationship with their own cervixes (cervixii?) and might like an excuse to celebrate, so feel free to join me.

Today, cervix, it is all about you. Thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Stitch-free area

If you are at all squeamish, or would rather not be privy to the contents of my girlie parts, then perhaps you should tune back Monday. Because today's post is going to be all cervix all the time.

The cerclage is out and I am relieved. But it was not so much fun having it removed and I would equate the experience to having all my fingernails pulled out one by one with a pliers. A rusty pliers.

When I arrived, I was a wee bit uptight. Or so my blood pressure indicated, considering it was 112/89. My normal is a coma-like 100/60, so I would say I might have been a bit nervous. Of course my outward appearance betrayed none of that, as I breezed in with full makeup, straight hair, jewelry, cute outfit and my fur coat. Because you can't take out a stitch in your cervix without your fur, natch.

They get me all set and call my OB and she comes down and we get down to work. And she digs. And she grabs. And she snips. And she digs. And she grabs. And she digs. And she grabs.

I am sweating bullets by this point, squeezing my opposite hand and doing some serious deep breathing. I can tell you what each of the ceiling tiles above the bed looked like and where all the water spots were. I was silently trying to decide if this was an acceptable form of torture for prisoners at Guantanamo. I would say the resounding answer is NO.

Then the discussion about the gauze used to stanch the bleeding began and it was determined that the old 4x4s would have been awesome, except they don't let them use them in the triage room anymore so we had to make do with the 2x2s. I have no idea what in the sam hell this means, except I hope no one was driving an SUV through the speculum. Although with all the pain, I really can't be sure.

About 25 gauze pads later, my OB said she thought "the oozing" had stopped and that she was done. She muttered something about talking to the perinatalogist about tying his knots on the side and checked my progress.

Lookee, lookee: immediately after removal I dilated to 1 cm and she pronounced my cervix very short. I was monitored for about 20 minutes and I think any contractions were very minor, so they sent me on my merry way. I was there an hour and 15 minutes total.

I came home and tried to pick Jack up and he looked at me like a crazy person. I guess he knew what was up after 21 weeks, but then he deemed me worthy and has not stopped asking "uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhpppppppppp" all day. It's nice to be loved.

My smug self was feeling pretty positive until about 2:45 p.m. when I started contracting with some serious intensity, four minutes apart. We're talking serious, can't-talk-through-them contractions that had me lying on my side and drinking water. I had about five of them before I fell asleep on the bed, slept for about an hour, and then had some more that woke me up. After the worst one yet, I decided to pee and that really helped. They stopped after that and I have been fine since dinnertime.

However, holy bleeding batman. I didn't bleed this much when they put the cerclage in. I can't believe it's this bad just from pulling it out. They told me to expect it for today and that it was normal. But seriously, it's a lot.

So now we wait. I want at least 10 more days out of this pregnancy, so let's all hold hands and chant or pray or think good thoughts or whatever it is you do. I'll just be here ignoring the impending labor.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

Tomorrow is the big day -- cerclage removal!

I seriously can't believe how fast the last 21 weeks have gone. I feel like I was just going in to get sewn up and here we are taking it out.

With Jack, I had the cerclage removed at 35 weeks 6 days and I dilated a to 3 cm over the course of 19 days. There were tons of contractions but no real labor and we induced to end my misery at 38 weeks 4 days.

This time, I am really hoping to make it 18 days, to my scheduled 39-week induction on Jan. 22 (I will be 36 weeks 4 days tomorrow). But of course, my cervix and this baby are conspiring against me and plotting a coup.

I had my final ultrasound yesterday to check for growth. Girl Baby is measuring ahead in almost every category and is estimated to be about 6 lbs 6 ounces. She's shaping up to be long and skinny, like her brother.

Unfortunately, the baby is sitting so low in my pelvis that they could not see my cervix nor could they see the top half of her face or head. They could see from the nose down and that was it. We got some lovely shots of her pursing her little lips, but who knows what was going on with her eyes and forehead.

I do believe the ultrasound tech's quote was, "This baby could just fall right out when you cut that stitch!"

She wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. I can barely walk and I feel like I have a bowling bowl between my legs. But I am not one of those naive first-timers who think the stitch will come out and I will immediately go into labor. Of course the slim possibility is lurking somewhere behind my eyeballs, making me pack my hospital bag, wash all the clothes and instruct (read: demand in a loud voice, possibly with tears) Josh to assemble the bassinette and changing table.

I do believe that I will contract for many, many days without any regular pattern. I do believe I will experience some outstanding pelvic pain from this child being so low. I do believe I will be begging for an induction two weeks from now to just get this kid out already.

And I do believe I will be both stitch-free and baby-free tomorrow afternoon. Here's to lifting my son for the first time in 21 weeks and going back to changing diapers and getting up early. Wait, do I really want this stitch out?

Merry Christmas and all that jazz

I won't go into the ridiculousness that is our holiday travel schedule yet again, but suffice it to say we spent nine hours driving hither and yon over two days. But it was a very nice holiday and Santa was very good to everyone.

Jack got a ridiculous amount of toys and clothes, Girl Baby hauled home probably more loot than any of us and she's still in utero, Josh got his Guitar Hero 3 game that I spent 10 days stalking the sales guy at Best Boy for and I got some new shiny diamond earrings that are so big I might tip a little bit when I walk. We are all spoiled brats.


Mom, I know it's Christmas but I haven't even had my coffee yet.

We're still recovering from all the holiday hoopla and believe it or not, I got sick again! I know! I never got better from the initial cold I have now had for eight consecutive weeks, so my OB took pity on me and my hacking and sniffling today and gave me an antibiotic. I swear I took the first dose this afternoon and I am feeling better already.

In other OB/GYN news, I had my 35-week appointment today and it was an interesting one all right. I gained 5 pounds (WTF? In two and a half weeks? Am I mainlining ice cream? Oh wait, I actually am. Shit. Moving on.) and my blood pressure is just sliiightly high for me. Not high for a regular person at all, but I hope it was just because I was kept waiting for 90 minutes and not because it's deciding to whack out.

While there, I asked my doctor if you always dilate and/or efface sooner or more quickly with second pregnancies. She said yes, or as "always" as anything can be when it comes to pregnancy. So I asked her, "Do you think I am going to make it to the 22nd?" Her answer: "No."

Whaaaat???? No! This can not be! I want to manage my birth. I didn't sign up for any labor!

So looks like our plans might be altered somewhat when it comes to the two weeks between the cerclage removal and what I am now referring lovingly to as my "hypothetical" induction date. Josh will have to work from home and I would imagine I will walk around feeling like a ticking time bomb who could leak fluid in a shocking gush at any time.

I know you are all waiting on pins and needles for those two weeks worth of posts.

Scottie Pippen week

Here we are at 33 weeks pregnant. And I always think of Scottie and his chicken legs when I see the No. 33, so Happy Scottie Pippen Week to everyone!

Yesterday I waited one hour and 45 minutes to see my doctor. It was a new record, even for that notoriously wait-filled office. Oh but it was worth the wait!

I only gained one pound in three weeks, hooray! And I am measuring at 31 weeks instead of 33, hooray again! But I can tell you I am starting to feel every centimeter of this expanding uterus. I am having trouble rolling over in bed easily and can't bend over anymore. Being pregnant in the winter sucks -- how the hell am I supposed to manuever these snow-filled sidewalks in backless New Balance tennis shoes?

But I really feel I should not complain because I am not that big. People tell me all the time I am carrying really small and to tell you the truth, I am happy about it. I don't want to look like a huge cow. How vain am I?

Anyway, we also solved the mystery of the comment from the resident at Labor & Delivery last week, which was, "Well, you are ... (pause) ... closed." To which I said I was nervous she was going to say something about being a fingertip dilated and she said, "Well I can get a fingertip in there." Which was news to this cerclage-sporting girl.

My OB said when they place cerclages, they don't do them so tight that not even air can get in. She said there needs to be a little play to the cervix to allow for the inevitable changes. Too tight and you would rip through the stitch. Sounds good enough to me. So she said that yes she could get a fingertip in, but there was no dilation or anything like that.

After all of that waiting and checking, we set the cerclage removal date for Friday, Jan. 4. I will be roughly 36 weeks 4 days, not that I am counting or anything, and I was pleased to have a date picked out. That gives me 17 days worth of contractions and false labor scares between my cerclage removal and my induction date. Won't that be fun?

And while I don't think I will go into labor immediately following the cerclage removal, there is a slim possibility. So we have to be prepared for a second child to join this family in a mere 24 days.

Wait. What? That's like three weeks from now.

Rest for the weary uterus

NaBloPoMo should really be called NaPoAboMyUteMo on snarkymommy.com because apparently I am just going to talk about my uterus every day.

Last night, after having a whopping three contractions in 20 minutes after leaving dinner, I broke down and called my OB. She was the one on call, so she personally returned my call and said she didn't think I needed to come in to Labor and Delivery since I was just seen on Monday. Hooray!

But she was slightly troubled by my three days of contractions and did say she wanted to see me on Friday and that I should "stay off my feet" until then. Which seemed pretty reasonable, considering when I stand up, I have a contraction. Or 20.

So I laid on the couch today. I slothfully drove the five blocks to Jack's play class and sat watching from the sidelines as Grandma chased him around. Then I came home and returned to the couch.

I am not calling it bedrest. I am just viewing it as lying around. Jack toddles over to play every few minutes. It's all very laid back.

So. Staying off my feet. Not contracting. BUT IT'S NOT BEDREST. No bed here. Carry on. Move along. Nothing to see here.

Contractual obligation

So hey, remember yesterday when I said I was still having contractions? And the day before that too? Yeah, still enjoying them today. It's like the gift that won't stop giving.

If I sit down or lie down, my uterus is at peace with the world. The second I stand up, I contract. Last night, I went on a date with Josh. Of course, my irritable uterus had to butt in and come along as well. God, it's such a third wheel.

We walked about four blocks to our dinner destination -- mmm Mexican food -- and then took the El downtown, walked another three blocks and sat down to see "American Gangster." Which was awesome. Go see it. Really.

I had about 20-25 contractions on the five hours we were gone. Most of them while I was walking in an upright fashion. (As opposed to walking on all fours? God sometimes I sound stupid. Moving on.)

I refused to call my doctor, however. I know these are just annoying Braxton Hicks and I know if I lie down and drink water, they will fade for a while. So ignoring my husband, who kept saying I should just CALL already, I laid down and drank water. Three contractions and 45 minutes later, I was asleep. I woke a few times during the night -- you guessed it, contracting -- and by this morning they were mostly gone.

Except when I stood up to make breakfast for Jack. Or walk over to the little reading corner to read a book to Jack. Or quickly moved to the kitchen as little arms threw toys and a cell phone into the sink.

This afternoon I have sat on my ass and only had about three total. two of which came when I was standing up. I am sensing a trend here. One I don't really want to see, so I am ignoring all the statistical data screaming "bedrest you fool, you clearly need bedrest" and also ignoring my mother, who is saying the same thing.