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.

I have two other kids, too

You'd think I forgot about my two existing children with the way I have completely ignored them on this blog as of late. But oh boy, are they pissed about the lack of attention. They told me so. So I promised them I would update the world about how awesome they are.

(If you're here for a pregnancy update, still pregnant, still contracting on an irregular basis but nothing that seems to be causing cervical change and still complaining all over the damn place about being nine-plus months pregnant and how unfair it is I have to do things like get out of bed in the morning and go grocery shopping. Josh is not swayed by arguments about these injustices. In fact, he laughs at me and tries to mimic my whining. Whatever.)

Let's start with Miss Emily Jean. This weekend she was trying to get my attention while I was surfing the Internet saving orphans in India and when I didn't snap to attention in 2.5 seconds, she started screaming, "Mom-MY, mom-MY!" And just like that, I went from Mama to Mommy. Of course that got my attention and resulted in tons of positive reinforcement like smiles and clapping on my part, so now she just screams "MOM-MYYYYYY" when she wants something. That's so many kinds of awesome I can't even describe it.

Emmie also caught an awesome cold this weekend, so she's snotting all over the place and leaving a trail of mucus in her wake. When she's not running away from me and my weapon of mass destruction (Kleenex), she's waking up in the middle of the night because she can't breathe. I really hope this keeps up because if there's one thing I don't need when I'm nine-plus months pregnant, it's a full night's sleep.

She also enjoyed her Thanksgiving. She really enjoyed her second helping of air and her third serving of whole milk. The turkey, stuffing, potatoes and broccoli she spit out and threw on the ground? Don't even mention it. No big deal.

Jackson, however, was a pure delight at the holiday table. Seriously. He sat in a regular chair (no booster) and ate politely, asked for more of everything, participated in conversation and cleaned up after himself. I have never seen a better-behaved almost-4-year-old. I complimented him numerous times and told him what a big boy he was. It was so enjoyable. Too bad his sister screamed "Oooouuuuuutttttttt" for 20 minutes at the top of her lungs.

He also attended his first circus this weekend with Josh and another friend and her dad, and a good time was had by all. He came home with a toy four-wheeler and stories about elephants and tigers and a magician. Josh came home with tales of $10 lemonades. Needless to say, Jack drank a beverage from home.

Jack returned to school today, fresh off his four-day break, excited to see his friends and teachers. When he scrambled into the car and started telling me about his day, he recounted what must have been a highlight, considering it made it into the first five minutes of the recap.

"Mommy, I went poop on the potty at school today," he said.

"Wow, that's... great? Did anyone help you?" I asked tentatively.

"No. I wiped myself," he said. "I did a good job."

"Well that's good," I said.

"I checked with my finger after. It was all clean."

Well then. Awesome. I asked if he washed his hands and he told me he used hand sanitizer. Sweet lord, I really hope he was just forgetting the part about using soap and water.

In other holiday news, Mr. Helpful Jack also assisted in the assembly and decoration of the Christmas tree this weekend. He found all the color-coded pieces and handed them to me in the correct order, which was all kinds of awesome because Mommy can't bend over and this made it so much easier. He helped Josh with the lights, but was disappointed when I told him we couldn't put ornaments on because I have a no-ornament policy with an almost 2-year-old in the house. But he was excited to see his handiwork completed when the tree was lit up in the darkened living room.

All in all, it was an enlightening weekend.

Competent beyond belief

My incompetent cervix has finally decided to get its damn act together and get in line. In what can only be described as karma gone wrong, it has suddenly decided to cowboy up and do its job.

I have not dilated any further after last Friday's cerclage removal and incredulously, the baby's head appears to have possibly moved up instead of down. My OB officially listed me at 1 cm dilated, 30 percent effaced and -3 station. Which means a turkey baby is a very slim possibility.

Not that this disappoints me in any way, because I am really not ready to pop this kid out this week, but I am sure all you people who guessed this weekend are cursing my cervix and its sudden competency.

I was also somewhat chagrined to find out all those painful contractions on Monday made not one iota of difference. It was all for nothing. Which makes me look forward to more days like that in the coming two weeks.

Apparently WeeBey is content and happy in there and has commanded the cervix to stay the course. We all know my water could break in the next minute and render all of this a moot point, but for now, no sign of impending labor.

I hope you and yours have a joyous Thanksgiving filled with turkey, gobs of butter, apple pie and football. I plan to enjoy seconds and thirds of everything -- I mean how often do you have official license to pig out in such a manner?

Something that passes for a real post

Let's recap: yesterday, near-constant contractions for all of my waking hours. They were about eight minutes apart and painful right before dinner, but once I stood up, made dinner and ate, they almost stopped. Clearly, fake contractions.

Today, I thought I was in for round 2, seeing as I was gripping the counter to steady myself while making breakfast for the kids. But, magically, the rest of the day was almost bearable. I still had contractions, but nothing painful and nothing remotely regular. Apparently my uterus decided to screw with me.

Let me tell you how EXCITED the prospect of enduring this for two more weeks makes me. I absolutely can't wait for more of this. Why yes, I am complaining. Thanks for not judging. While I am trying to enjoy this pregnancy, I also don't get jazzed about the idea of non-stop contracting for 14 days.

I just had one as I typed that last paragraph. Perhaps it was psychosomatic? Or I just have a lot of them and it was coincidental timing? Who knows.

That was all a roundabout way of saying I don't really have anything to say, but I knew if I didn't post something, people would be all, "ZOMG, r u in labor?"

More exciting updates coming tomorrow. I have an OB appointment in the afternoon so perhaps we'll find out all these contractions have caused more dilation. I know you're all on pins and needles.

Oh mucus plug, oh mucus plug

For your enjoyment, sung to the tune of "Oh Tannenbaum," I present to you: my ode to the mucus plug. Yes, I really composed a song about it. (I totally forgot about the mucus plug until this weekend and then I was dying laughing in the bathroom because it's just so hilarious to see one. And just like with Jack and Emmie, it made its appearance within a day of my cerclage removal. I am nothing if not consistent.)

"O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy makeup is much-changing;
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy makeup is much-changing;
Not only seen when labor's near,
But also when 'tis there nor here.
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy makeup is much-changing!

O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Much hope thou can'st give me;
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Much hope thou can'st give me;
How often has the sight of thee
Afforded me the greatest glee!
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Much hope thou can'st give me.

O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy is so gross and slimey!
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy is so gross and slimey!
Staring at you is just so fun
But from the bathroom I will run
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
Thy is so gross and slimey!

O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
How much I really miss you!
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
How much I really miss you!
You came and went without a thought,
A few contractions you have brought.
O Mucus Plug! O Mucus Plug!
How much I really miss you!"

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.

Oh, the places you will go (in yoga pants)

Remember when I said I can't in good conscience wear yoga pants in public when I am pregnant? Because I am an uppity snob who insists on wearing designer maternity jeans, despite the fact they cut into my stomach and cause contractions when I am in any position except that of standing? And I am too afraid of people thinking I am a big slob?

Oh, how we eat our words at the 35-week mark.

I have now worn yoga pants to school dropoff, school pickup, the library, Costco, the pharmacy, Old Navy, the park, Ikea and Home Depot, among countless other locations in the Chicagoland area.

"Will you succeed? Yes, you will indeed." It's like Dr. Seuss wrote that expressly for pregnant women. How did he know?????

I am sure Josh finds this so HOTT. I mean come on, what's not to love -- slouchy, ill-fitting pants that make my ass look saggy? That screams MILF right there, if you think MILF stands for Mom I'd Like to Forget.

So, without further ado, I present me in all my 35-week pregnant glory. And yes, I am wearing yoga pants. In fact, I wore them all day long. And I have three pair, so guess what, I can wear a similar outfit three more times this week before I need to do laundry. (Who am I kidding? I probably won't even do laundry.)

Pair of threes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Non-smoking section

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncontrolled chaos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even more pregnancy blather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roid rage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew this was coming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just call me MacGyver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jean pool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hodgepodge

You know what we haven't seen the likes of on this blog lately? A nice bullety list of random goodness. Let's rectify that, shall we?

* I am officially in the third trimester now at 28 weeks. Wow. This is just flying by isn't it? Let's all pretend I am not giving birth in about 10 weeks. Because if I don't pretend that, I might freak out and have a pregnancy panic attack because OH MY HOLY HELL I AM GOING TO HAVE THREE CHILDREN UNDER FOUR.

* Speaking of three children, my mom told me today that she picked the kids up some Christmas jammies this weekend. She was going on about how cute they were and how they were matchy-matchy and I asked if she got three pairs. She said no, why would she get three? I had to remind her WeeBey would be here for Christmas and she shrieked and said she forgot. This is my fear about daily life in December: I will leave the baby behind someplace because I forget I have three of them. But with three, I guess I'll always have a spare so it will all work out.

* Jack slept until 7:30 this morning, making it three consecutive days he has slept past 7 a.m. If you have arrived at this blog using the Google search, "What to do when my 3.5-year-old won't sleep past 5:15 in the morning and I want to shoot myself" then I have your answer: Put the child to bed at 6:30 p.m. and put the gun back in the locked storage box in the closet. I am living proof it works. I now finally believe everyone who told me that once their kid gave up naps, they started sleeping longer at night. Oh it was a battle to get him there, what with the horrible months of 5:15 wakeups, but we've maybe kinda sorta possibly figured out what works. And I am sure it will change tomorrow just because I told the Internet and everyone knows when you do that, it comes back to bite you in the ass.

* We're having blown-in insulation blown into the house today. This involves them removing a course of siding, drilling holes into the outside of the house, then oozing some liquid foam into the spaces between the whattya-call-the-2x4s-that-hold-up-the-floors. This will save us approximately $75,421.38 in heating costs each month. No lie. It was like we would turn the heat on and open the front door and all the windows every winter. Not to mention the pipes that would freeze every single time the temperature dropped below 15 degrees. There's nothing quite like the look of panic on Josh's face and watching him run downstairs in his boxers with a blowdryer in one hand and a space heater in the other after I throw open the bedroom door at 7 a.m. on a Sunday and scream, "The pipes! The pipes! Shit!"

* Part of the whole "popsicle pipe" problem is that there is a hole between the inside of our kitchen cabinet and the outside of the house. It's covered by the siding, but there's just a big ole' gaping hole there for no reason at all. As the guys were blowing the goo in there today, I thought to remind them about the hole. Good thing -- because now there's three inches of white foam covering all my cleaning products. I'm sure they'll clean that right up.

* Emmie, Queen of Doing It Myself and Duchess of No I Don't Want To Hold Your Hand Mommy, held court in Whole Foods this morning. I needed to grab a tube of toothpaste for the kids after she attended a little music class there and figured I could just run over to the health and beauty section and run on out. Clearly, I have never been a parent before. She threw herself on the floor, rolled around, screeched and refused to get up after I told her she most definitely could NOT take all the bottles of lotion off the shelf. Seeing as I am not allowed to lift her, other than in and out of her crib at naptime, I was at a loss. Didn't have the stroller with me (because I am a DUMBASS) so after 10 minutes of this nonsense, I picked her up and carried her out. Contractions within minutes, but they stopped when I got home and sat down. I guess they're not kidding when they told me not to carry her around with my cerclage in place.

* Remember when I said I was never doing construction on this house again? I am such a lying liar. Also, a glutton for punishment. In true Snarky Family style, I am pregnant again and we're starting another remodeling project again. While I am pregnant. Did I mention I was pregnant and we're remodeling? I am screaming silently right now. I look just like that famous painting. It's quite frightening, I assure you. But the project is necessary for all the important people in this house (that would be me and Josh) to maintain our sanity with the impending arrival of our bundle of joy. We currently have three bedrooms upstairs, plus a sunroom. The sunroom is a piece-of-shit, uninsulated, sloping-floored catchall for all the crap we need to store someplace. During the summer, it's usally 714 degrees and in the winter it's 45 degrees below 0. It currently holds tools of all make, model and size, holiday decorations, baby gear, a steam cleaner, St. Louis Cardinals lawn chairs, cans of paint, old toys and this safe that says "Property of Al Capone" on the outside. It will soon contain our Emmie and her things, as we are gutting it and making it a fully-functioning bedroom. That makes this a five-bedroom (plus office that could be a sixth bedroom) house and hopefully completes any more goddamn remodeling we have to do. Other than the upstairs bathroom. But that can wait. You know, until the bathtub falls through the floor.

* You might ask why we don't make two of the kids share a room to save some money, don't you people know there is a recession and you are a SAHM, you selfish whores of consumption? The answer is because Josh and I would go insane if our children all got up at 5:30 a.m. every day. Although Jack has been sleeping well for three whole days, we know better and realize it won't last. Rather than have him share his passion for torturing his parents at 5:30 a.m. with a sibling, we elected to have a room for everyone and everyone in his/her room on the third floor. This leaves a guest room free for guests (read: grandparents who are gracious enough to get up with the children when they sleep over) and an office in which Josh can hide from the kids in the basement. It also means everyone will sleep on the same level of the house and I won't have to clomp up and down the stairs to deal with nighttime wanderings, midnight feedings or requests for glasses of water.

* Apologies for the shit I just spewed forth. Tune in tomorrow for All Ultrasound Pictures, All The Time. Subtitle: "I Finally Found A Flashdrive So I Could Scan The Damn Things In A Month Later."

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.

Jamming at the United Center

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big love

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



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

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

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

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

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

Blackjack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halfway to insanity

Today marks the official halfway point in this third pregnancy. That means I have 20 weeks until my brain oozes out of my ears and I lose my mind. You can sense the level of excitement I have about this, can't you? It's palpable.

Truth be told, I am excited about this pregnancy and the impending birth. I have been feeling regular thumps from WeeBey for about three weeks now and just like its brother and sister before it, WeeBey likes the nightlife. The fun begins around 8 p.m. and lasts until I go to bed around 11 p.m. I'm not sure how he/she smuggled a disco ball in there, but think "Night at the Roxbury" in terms of rhythm.

My family thinks I am nuts, however, because I keep dismissing things with a wave of my hand and the phrase, "I have plenty of time -- I have until February." I keep forgetting this baby is due in the middle of December and I still have the February timeline in my head from Jack's pregnancy. Considering my children tend to arrive roughly two weeks early, we're looking at sometime the first week of December. Oh my holy hell, I could go into labor eating Thanksgiving dinner. "Pass the potatoes and the cranberries, oh and I'll have a side of placenta as well please!"

Logistically, we still have no idea how this new baby will fit in to our lives. It has no room of its own. We have an Acura MDX and while roomy, shoving a third infant seat between two beheamoth Britax seats is going to be like squishing a salami into a hot dog bun. Jack starts all-day school in the fall, but that also means coordinating drop-offs and pick-ups around nap schedules and hoping I don't forget anyone in the morning rush to get out the door. And don't even get me started on how I will handle dinner, bath and bedtime for three children by myself while Josh is traveling. Let's just say bottles will be involved, and not for any of the children.

Only five months to go! Only five months to go? Only. Five. Months. To. Go.

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.