No Pain, No Gain, No Sleep

Baby Harry is nine months old and, until recently, was doing a spot-on job of sleeping through the night. Then he got sick. Like "hey I could probably fry an egg on you if I wanna!" sick.
It was the worst two weeks of my life.
So, obviously, I met his every whim and need on command. If he was hungry even after eating his large lunch, I fed him. If he didn't want to sleep until midnight and could only find comfort by lying on his back, arched over my shoulder like a mink stole, I accomodated. If he felt like climbing my shirt front, ripping off whatever breast-like mass that happened to be in his way, and leaving a goo of baby nose slime in his wake - he did it.
And I showered more.
When he let me.
So now that he's pink and perky and back to a less fiery temperature - I seem to have nurtured the sickness - and the brattiness- out of him.
He sobs if I remove a found toy from his hands - no matter that his new "toy" is usually something that could choke/scar/maim him. He now imitates a banshee on crack if I so much as venture more than 12" from his person - making "quiet time" for momma a near impossibility. And, finally, he refuses to sleep alone.
His Pottery Barn crib with colorful sheets and bumpers?
A torture chamber.
The Twilght Turtle projecting the night sky upon the ceiling?
His jailer.
And me?
I am his Pardoner.
Only I can save him from his cruel cold prison. And so he howls, he shrieks, he yells, he shakes, he grunts, he coughs, he sputters and he pleads: "MOMMOMMAMMMOMMAAAMOMMAMMMOOOMMMA!"
And what do I do?
I escape. I hide. I cry. I --- blog.

Giving Up

As the year 2011 approaches I realize that my life has been less about what I wanted and more about what others have wanted from me.

I am a born people-pleaser.

I may be able to craft a story, type quite a few words a minute (not well, but still!) and I can make the best of most any situation - but I've often felt I was one of those people born to make others shine that much more brightly.

My sister was the brain (even though her grades didn't show it) and she was the beauty (her trophies did show that) and I was - the other one. I often referred to myself as the Danny DeVito of "Twins" - that my sis sucked up the gene pool so that only the leftover crap and sludge caught in the filter was what constructed my DNA.

I lacklusterly finished college with a BA in Criminal Justice - a degree so useless that it is often mentioned first in 2am infomercials to the weak-willed and weaker-minded. Fresh out of college I reached far in my pursuit of Career Advancement - and started work as a Receptionist. At a second-rate law firm. A place that was lovingly nicknamed "Hell" whilst I sat in the lobby and let my brain rot on Harry Potter fan fiction and my butt expand on the consumption of poorly placed Hershey's miniatures.

But things have changed.

And although I am still a people pleaser - I find that my ability to please only one, tiny, demanding person, at a time is --- enjoyable.

So although I may not be a world famous authoress as I once intended - I'm happy now to just be Baby Harry's mom - a fact that should embarrass my semi-feminist bod to the core - but I find it's actually soothing.

I'm not giving up my life for him - I'm just --- giving.

Then again, I could wake up tomorrow in a blind panic and find myself in two years' time, at 3 am on one of those infomercials saying "I'm a Phoenix!"

Merry Christmas Cyberland!

The Unclean

It's been a rough week. Big Harry was gone, frolicking through the Georgian meadows and soaking up the warm southern sun (certainly not working like a dog!!!) while I stayed behind to tend to the behind, and other parts, of my darling baby.
Who laughs at me when I cry.
And laughs harder when I cry harder.
Evil baby.
So when I called Harry today to get sympathy for my maternal maladies, here was his response:

Me: "it's been a hard week. Baby has been a little fussy and clingy and wouldn't let me put him down. Hell, I haven't been able to take a real shower since you left!"

And what pearl of wisdom did he pull from 'tween his butt cheeks? What comforting phrase did he utter to quell my fears and soothe my nerves?

Big Harry: " Eeeeeeeewwww."

Yup. Not "ohhhh, baby, don't you worry, I'll be home soon and you can go soak until you're pruny!"
Nope.
I got "Eeeeeeeewww."

So when the baby wanted to spit up on Daddy's side of the bed and then roll in it like a little hairless puppy- I let him.
Cuz, ya know, "Eeeeeeeewww!"

:)

Baby Pictures

Creative blog title, yes?

Here's some pics of my babykins from the past few weeks. 

Hard to believe the lil' bugger hit the six month mark already!

Baby Harry is growing so fast!

He found his toes the other day - and he's been angry at them ever since - punishing them by biting and chewing on them every chance he gets. 

Also, he figured out that by yanking the dark strands coming out of my head - he can make me make funny, loud noises like, "uugowowow!" and "quititevilbaby!"

Motherhood has its challenges.  Like figuring out how to make pea-vomit-speckled shirts look classy-ish, and how to pack an SUV creatively since you're cramming in everything but the kitchen sink (we have wipes for that), and, of course, how to still maintain some iota of your former personality while calculating the available "free" time you have left in a day.  Which is, usually, none.  

But it has its perks too.  Like having a cute baby.  

:)

"F" For (Lack of) Effort

"You know," I said as I snuggled deeper into Big Harry's armpit on the tacky striped sofa, "we could totally do it right now."  Then I sighed.  "But as soon as we got naked you know he'd wake up."

"I was just thinking the same thing," he said, grinning - and not taking his eyes off of the football game on tv. 

"Is it sad that we now gauge our sex life by whether or not we'll wake up a sleeping baby?"

"Ungh," he grunted - either in agreement or because defense showed blitz or someone dropped a ball/caught a ball/ saw a ball - I don't follow "The Football."

A few minutes later I was standing at the sink when I felt a presence behind me.  

Zzzzzip!  

I felt something pressing against the back of my jean-clad butt and legs.  

I giggled and glanced back at my husband who was grinning. 

I was beginning to make a snarky comment about how it was probably half-time when - we heard distinct crying and disgruntled sounds coming from the other room. 

Baby Harry, sensing his parents were about to do something that would distract their attention from his many needs for longer than five minutes, had awoken and was not pleased. 

"Your turn," I said, turning back to the dishes.  

"Ungh," he grunted.  

This time I'm sure it was not because of a bad football play. 

:)

Random Happenings from World of Holly and Harry(s)

I'm a bad, bad, Mrs. Blogger, huh?

Well, it's like this - the Ipad? Ya know that uber-cool thing that Mr. Jobs RAVES about - DOESN'T WORK FOR BLOGGER BLOGGING.  And no app in sight. 

And---- I killed my Macbook Air.  No - I don't know how and NO I didn't do it on purpose - it just got - confused.  And kept trying to load but, pathetically, couldn't.  But never fear. Big Harry was here to fix it - with a backed up copy. From May. 

So I only lost a few months (forehead smack goes here). 

I traveled to NC for a few weeks with the Harrys and was taunted daily by a mysterious ball in the pond behind our hotel.  "Fred" as I named him would show up at random times and random places within the pond - looking no worse for the wear from storms and random Hurricane-winds that swooped by.  I made up stories of his origin since there are NO houses near that part of town and I could only guess he was related to "Wilson" of "Castaway" fame. He was my friend.  Some days - my only friend. 

I threw my back out again - worse this time.  I swear if I find the expiration date on this here body of mine.... Well - I'm asking for a refund - or a bionic body - I can scrape up donations for $6 million, I'm sure.  So after two weeks of ineffective Chiro-ing I finally went to the doc and got a shot in the butt for my trouble - and a crap ton of Rx's.  I'm going to be better in no time - and probably do something else stupid to mess it up.  

Currently my baby boy, Harry the Fourth, is creeping along toward the six month marker.  What the hell happened to the past three months? The first three seemed so slow, as if they would never come to a close and reveal the boy beneath the fussy baby and now - dude is growing up too fast! I buy him 6 month clothing - AND THEY'RE TOO SMALL!  He wears baby capris cuz the pants are too short and they give him a lil tummy fat roll too!  He's found his toes, too. And instead of being overjoyed - he's mad.  They're like little five-toed invaders into his world and must be destroyed.  Problem is, once he's managed to pull of his socks and get into a reclining position - his belly blocks their way to his mouth.  So he tugs with BOTH HANDS to get one foot to his mouth.  Holding his breath he'll get his big toe in his mouth, grin, slobber - and lose his grip. For which he will then utter his favorite baby curse word:"MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!" - Yes, my name is what he utters when he is BEYOND pissed at the world.  Siiiiigh. 

Went to the Fallfest tonight in Barboursville, WV.   Ate a hot dog.  A Pepsi.  Some bits of a funnel cake that fell out of Big Harry's mouth.  A deep fried pecan pie.  Some curly chips and - currently - a bag of cotton candy.   I expect the sugar coma to be a way to catch up on my sleep from the past few months.  

Oh - and on the "New Mama" front - my hair has decided to part ways with my head.  The hair sculptures on the shower wall have gone from Minimalistic Expressionism to A Grotesque Overuse of Medium.  Nothing I can do will stop my hair from falling out in clumps.  So - if you have a lot of pesky hair, thick strands that you can do nothing with - just have a baby and watch it all, literally, go down the drain.  I'm THIS CLOSE to hitting Chic Wigs in the local mall.  Maybe they'll have a Katy Perry blue one and I can start a (very bad) trend. 

Last week I turned 30-uh-(mumble).  The boys and I went to a very fancy restaurant. I was mortified.  I was expecting the baby to go all Excorcist crazy on me since I was eating (He doesn't like for me to eat.  No, really, he'll knock the food out of my hand or grab it from me.  It's the best diet - if I'd let him win).  But he did really well.  I have pictures but, of course, my Mail isn't working right now.  Why? Cuz Mac's hate me.  

And sometimes, the feeling is mutual. 

Okay - off to bed now since the baby is asleep and, per usual, if he's asleep, I'm asleep.  Or bidding on stuff at Shopgoodwill.com.  That place is ADDICTING! And so much less commercialized and confusing and shady as Ebay.  

Rant over. Everyone back to their large bag of pink and blue Cotton Candy.  What? No Cotton Candy? Oh that's saddddddd. I'd share but.... well... uh....  :)

A Minute to Collect Myself

My husband has control issues. It's the one major thing we fight about and it creeps into all aspects of his life. He won't let things go if he knows he's "right", he has to be involved on all decisions which involve him, or even if they don't, and, most importantly, if he has one of it -he must have them all.
I used to make fun of him for his OCD-like collections: Simpsons figures, GI joes, Transformers, Masters of the Universe, Metallica records, comics and more fill our basement and walls, shelves and windows, rooms and even bathrooms in order for him to feel happy, complete and in control.
Not that I'm innocent of having the odds and ends of collectabiles either. I have quite a bit of Harry Potter merchandise, some special Barbies, a few Buffy and Angel dolls and stands and a large wardrobe of designer duds, handbags and shoes. But do I have to have them? Surely not.
But then I started cleaning out our downstairs closet in hopes of having some loot to sell this weekend at my parent's big Yard Sale. I tugged and lugged, cursed and sweated my way to the back and then turned to look at what I'd dragged out. A pile, roughly as tall as me and as big around as my extended redneck family loomed before me.
It was all Christmas wrapping paper.
And bows.
And balls.
And ribbon.
And tags.
Oh. My. GAWD!!!
I tried organizing the mound, but it only made it worse - and prettier. I wondered aloud about possible wrapping paper support groups. Should I just give up and ask Santa to bring me a wrapping paper wall organizer? Nah, no way my name was accidentally moved off the naughty list.
I stuffed some horrendous old decor items, curtains, fake foliage, and a few other odds and ends into bags and lugged them up the stairs all the while ignoring the alluring pile of bedazzled paper.
Temptation behind me I then searched the bathroom for useless items like footbaths and hair product gimmicks (a hair dryer with a brush attached!!!! Wow!!!) when I noticed another pile forming.
Headbands. Plastic ones, fabric ones, small and big ones, sparkly ones, classic ones, old and new ones. Piles upon piles of strayhairkeepers were being pulled from every drawer and alcove in the bathroom.
And I had more.
In my suitcase.
I quickly shoved them in to a bottom drawer but stopped first to admire a rather pleasing pink and gray number in thick flannel.
I vowed then and there never to bring up my hubs crazy collections again.
I'd be silent, supportive and sweet, even for it seemed that I, too, collect things. So I shall bite my tongue... for one whole day. Whew! Marriage is full of sacrifices! ;)

A Feat of Feet

I'm obsessed with boots right now. With Fall looming there are visions of booties, knee-hi and even the occassional peeptoe leather wonder wandering in my brain. And now that the swelling in my legs have gone down - some may actually fit!
Oh the thought makes me as giddy as a naughty schoolgirl in plaid!
Thus far I have ordered two pair blindly from the web (ugly and waaaay too big-I'd have to have Andre the Freakin Giant's calves to fit in the last pair!) and tried on about a hundred more. My problem, I'm realizing, is that I just don't like ugly shoes. And there are some doooooozies out there!
So even as I cling to my hope (and all those side zippers) I know my boots are out there, waiting for me, and when I find them, I shall love them -and name them Nancy. ;)

Crawl Bawl

At a little over four months old - I think my baby is amazing. People compliment me on his "soulful" stare, his adorable grin and his ability to stuff his entire hand into his tiny mouth. I've called Guiness Records on that last one.

So when his daddy and I placed him on his back under his fun gym so that he could exercise the last thing we expected was that it would turn into a rescue mission.

He started out calmly enough by grasping the tail of the monkey dangling over his face - he then flung himself to his side and, before we could move, on to his belly. He then pushed up on to his chubby arms, repeatedly banging his head on the plastic disc that was hanging at the end of the gym. His legs began to kick furiously in an effort to crawl, but instead, since his arms are not as strong as his constantly-moving legs, he ended up eating mat.

But he didn't stop kicking.

Instead he kept trying to crawl, orange and yellow-striped butt wiggling in the air while his face was ground into the colorful sealife mat below.

He actually made progress, like a determined inchworm, until he hit the pole at the end of the gym, which made him scream indignantly until daddy rescued him.

"There ya go," Big Harry said as he rolled him back on to his back and placed him under Harvey the Monkey. Big Harry got up from the floor, turned around, and almost made it back to the couch when he looked back and saw his child wriggling back on to his stomach to repeat the process.

We are all gluttons for punishment in this family!

Seven Year (B)Itch

This Monday, June 21st, marks my seven-year wedding anniversary with my hubs and we hit the "Seven Year Itch." Based on pre-conceived and popular notions, I believe this seven year milestone entitles me to a Pool Boy. Or a Gardner.

I mean, seriously. It's hot here and I've got some overgrown bushes. No, really, I do.

:)

Welcome to Harry's Baby Life

As is well documented, my baby makes no small show when he is making "presents." So while my sister was enjoying the lunch I made for her, my darling baby decided to start grunting like a pig in heat.

Rushing like a footballer, I tucked him under my arm and rushed to the changing table and, breathing only through my mouth lest I pass out from the foulness and squish my newbie, I pulled down his diaper. Elmo seemed to be warning me from the waistband, but I pressed on.

It was empty.

"Well, Harry!" I said and stepped off to the side to grab the nail clippers as his tiny toe just cut a gash in my arm.

I turned back around to see - a fountain. My baby was grinning and peeing a stream that was reaching a good two feet in the air and drowning the yellow duckies on his footy pajamas.

"You did that on purpose," I said to him as I stripped him down to his (new) diaper.

He's been like that all day.

Earlier he grabbed my thumb between his two pink gums and chomped and then licked it. When I asked for it back - he grinned - not releasing my digit but instead having a grand ol' time increasing pressure slowly - just to see what I would do.

I may have watched too much "Family Guy" while I was pregnant...

I'm scared of my baby. :)

Will Work for Sparkles

Today I revisited my youth by volunteering mine and my sister's services as pageant judges. In the pre-JeanBenet world of pageantry, the biggest "Glitz" accessory was the occasional can of spray glitter or a "flipper" to fill in that one missing front tooth. So I am often unprepared for the amount of preparation that goes into pageants nowadays.

Case in point - a two year old today rocked a red, white and blue outfit as per the pageant requirements. But her mother had also sewn little seahorses and fish to the bottom of her sailor dress.

"Ohmygaw!" Summer gasped as the little girl turned to leave the stage and showed us the back of the tiny dress adorning her two year old frame.

Her bottom was completely covered in a red and white Lifesaver Tube.

As Summer and I left the pageant today, we were all a twitter (the emo not the app) because the director saw fit to give us two of the leftover star-spangled crowns. You'd have thought we won them the way we oohed and awwed over the tiny crowns with a red, white and blue star upon each.

"Arewegonnawearthemhome?" my sister asked in her normal non-pausing way, face shining with hope and anticipation.

"Well, duh!" I said and, as soon as we were safe inside her rustic Ford pickup - we plunked them on to our heads and adjusted our hair appropriately as any princess knows that hair placement is as important as the crown placement.

Pulling up to the window at Burger King we watched as each employee came to the window and handed us our change/food. And then paused. And looked at our sparkly heads.

We grinned.

It really is hard being this cool. hahaahha!

And Then There Were Two

Big Harry: "You feed him - I'll go get breakfast!"
Me: "Yay!"
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNNH!"
Big Harry: "Byeeeee!" (cloud of dust in his wake)
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNH! UNNNNH!"
Me: "Crap..." (begins mouth-breathing only)

My Changing Life

Today, for the first time, I changed my baby in a public restroom. I had, previously, been there for changings on relative's furniture and even for the occasional change in the back of my SUV (the latter of which had to be done in three different stops since my kid is not one to waste time and only defecates once a day. A BIG ONE. Once a day.).

Big Harry and I are strolling through Target and, once again, I am stuck muttering in the deodorant aisle since my particular brand seems to now be geared toward sweaty pre-teens instead of glistening housewives. I was delving through row after row of "pear blossom" and "cherry daffodil" or some crap like that when I heard a familiar sound coming from the cart.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnh!"

"Is he poopin'?" I asked Big Harry as he continued to prattle on about air filters or horsepower or percentages - things beyond my stuttered and drugged comprehension - "Is he?" I peered closely at my serious-faced child. His head was to the left. His blue eyes were shiny and - his face was beet red.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" he repeated, lips pursed and face turning tomato-like.

I look at my husband. He looks at me. We race to the checkout line, unwilling to forgo our over-priced toiletries but praying that we can make it back to our home, a mere five minutes

down the road, before Poopgate 2010 began.

"Unnnnnnnh!" We're in the lane, and the cashiers, obviously being paid hourly, continue their slow and oh-so-difficult job of running items over a scanner in a speed usually reserved for Nursing Home relay races.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" My baby grunted again - a loud and evil sound. And then the smell filled the air. That smell that can only be known by the parents of fussy children with sensitive systems being run on things like soy milk and oatmeal.

"Oh no," I said and sighed. I grabbed my Kate Spade overfilled diaper bag and plucked my child from his seat.

"I'll do it," Big Harry said, looking every bit the martyr as he heaved his large manly

shoulders and hung his large-but-cute-head in defeat.

"That's okay - I have my diaper bag. I'll do it."

"Okay!" he said and waved to me as my squirmy, stinky child and I headed toward the Target lavatory.

I had noticed the changing tables BK (Before Kid) but had always considered them to be, well, too icky to contemplate. A place where poop was harvested and pee was captured. The ironic part of it being located directly next to a toilet was lost on me.

Carefully, I plucked a paper towel from the dispenser and approached the plastic slab on the wall. Using the towel as a shield, I flipped the table down and set my bag upon it. I then laid

down my own changing pad (carefully constructed to match my Kate Spade bag but not, as it happens, to stay put as I chased my squirmy kid from one end to the other, dodging sneaky pee streams all the way).

"Unnnnnnnnnh!" Baby Harry grunted again as I laid him on the pad, removed his Jordan shoes and bright orange shorts and surveyed the damage.

One tiny pebble stared at me from the confines of his Big Bird diaper.

"Well that's not so bad!" I grinned at my baby and dug in my bag for a wipe - as he grunted again - a fierce and mighty UNNNNNNNNNNNH and - covered himself, my hand, and the rest

of his Big Bird diaper with yellow goo.

"Ewwwwww! Harry! Ewwww!" I laughed and tried to remember not to breathe through my nose.

"Well, that's still not so - AAAGH! HOW ARE YOU STILL POOPING?!?!" Like a secret agent my small child had lined up the shot, folded his chubby legs in the air and grunted like a sliverback gorilla as he delivered another barrage of poopy play-doh into the filled diaper.

A bag of wipes, two diapers and three handwashings later, I walked out to meet my husband. He took one look at me, a sweaty, disheveled mess with red cheeks and then looked at his happy, giggling son.

I expected him to offer to take the next round of poop roulette. Or to offer to get me a cool

beverage so as to recoup from the stank war I'd just waged - and sorta won. At the very least I expected him to lovingly wipe the beads of sweat from my hair so as to keep it from curling into a hick-fro.

"Hey," he offered instead. "What did you do with his shoes?"

Luckily, I was too parched to answer him with the string of curses that filled my mind as it would've required oral acrobatics that my tired self and dry mouth could not perform.

"In bag," I managed to reply and tossed (not literally) our kid at him. I slowly shuffled to the concession stand and purchased a bag of popcorn and a large Cherry Coke to make myself feel like a real person instead of a walking latrine. I savored the drink, letting its sweetness fill my mouth, bubble on my tongue and rehydrate my very soul (I'm country. We like our pop. Get over it.).

I then dug into my popcorn, grabbing a handful with glee and stuffing it into my face - when I realized something.

My hand smelled like poop.

Even after multiple handwashings up to each elbow - the stinky baby butt smell permeated from the pores in my hand - which was now filled with popcorn.

Which I ate anyway.

I really am adjusting to motherhood...

Sleeping Beauties Green with Envy

Both Harrys are sleeping peacefully right now. Both have arms and legs flailed and both are snoring softly. United in slumber I am again reminded how outnumbered I am as they frolic through dreamland and I stare at the wall trying to remember if I took the sheets out of the washer.
My days are filled with the stresses of keeping my baby, Señor Fussybutt, fed and happy. This is my new job. And, to discredit myself as a mother, it really can suck sometimes. As much as I love my baby, I find myself yearning for those things I now miss: movies, free time to write, personal hygeine and showering daily. Sigh. Oh and sleep. I miss lazy Saturdays and sleeeeeeeep!
Sometimes I'll be watching tv and see a mom with curled hair and darkened lashes and think: "When did she have time for THAT?!" and then I remember --it's fiction.
So although I have little time for fashion, romance, and, unfotunately, hygeine, I am constantly amazed at my little guy and his ability to make me smile one minute and be terrified of his lil' 12 pound ass the next.
Motherhood, so far, is kinda smelly, kinda weird, kinda tiring (a lot!) and kinda great.

One Month - Really?

A month ago today I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Harry, who was named after his father, grandfather and great-grandfather.

I'd love to say that things have been easy but as many of you parents know - babies are hard! Baby Harry has had tummy issues, gas issues, spit-up issues, latching issues and pretty much any other issue that a kid who's only been around for a few weeks could have. Which, to say the least, has drained this new mother to the point of having to ask the doctor for "Happy Pills." I'm not one to admit defeat easy so trying to pretend that everything was hunky dory while sobbing hysterically 24 hours a day, not eating and puking more than when I was prego - well - that was not a fun task.

But he really is a beautiful baby.

He's strong.

He's loud.

He's mine.

I'd post more but due to my lack of brain power, sleep and properly balanced hormones, I will have to save it for later.

Oh - his stats: Birth date: 3/25/10. 8 pounds, 3 ounces. 21.5 inches long and he has a full head of hair, pretty olive skin and blue-grey eyes.

Speak Clearly. Think Clearly. Huh?

I have about two weeks left of being a host to a creature that kicks me, causes my sciatic nerve to torment me, and my food to often reappear at inopportune intervals. In the meantime I have gotten used to people looking at me funny. Tonight was no exception.

I approached the checkout desk at Border's Bookstore and plopped a Clive Cussler book on cd and two P.C. Cast novels onto the stand. "Is this not on sale?" I asked the unattractive woman who had spent too many hours at the front desk. Her hair stood on end - her eyes flashed with contempt of shoppers and her breasts sagged from the effort of trying to run away from her offending personality.

"I don't know," she said oh-so-helpfully.

"Well - okay," I said, trying to hide my disdain of her ways. I worked in retail for YEARS and even at my worst "I hate all customers" time - I was still a pleasure to behold. Or at least I'd like to think so.

"No, it's not on sale."

"Well, can you check my card and see if I have a five dollar coupon on there?"

"No, you don't."

"Well, I'll just go ahead and take it then," I sighed. I was fed up with her "helping" and I just wanted to go home and sit on a heating pad to make my leg stop hurting.

"What?" she stared at me blankly.

"I said I'll go ahead and take it."

"You want the book on cd?" she seemed confused by my lack of ability to convey that I WANTED THE DAMN BOOK.

"Am I saying it funny? Are things not coming out right?" I asked my sister, who, unfortunately seemed to confirming sasquatch's confusion.

"Youwantthebook?" she asked me in her non-pausing fashion and patted me like a kid who couldn't make up her mind between Sour Patch Kids or Sour Worms in the candy store.

"Seriously? Did I not just say that I did?" I was incredulous.

"No, youweren'tmakingsense," Summer said and pushed my other books forward.

"Well, huh," I said, pulling out my credit card and handing it to Hateful Eyes.

"This pregnancy thing sucks," I continued while walking out of the store.

So on top of my other maladies - I can now add the inability to talk real good to peoples either.

Yay.

Pregnant Pauses

Last Friday I went to my Physical Therapist. I was wearing nice jeans with a stretchy maternity panel and a cute baby-bump showing sweater with an empire waist and lowcut enough that my milky milkjugs were so far on display that I could barely see my feet. I had even put on cute dangling black earrings to match my sweater and a chunky black bracelet.

The only thing I was missing was - my feet.

They were still wrapped from knee to toe in gauze, cotton, foam and bedecked in a pair of navy blue and white velcro-strapped faux footwear substitutes.

I wanted them off. OFFFFF!

So when my box arrived stating its contents were "For My Swelling Solutions" - I was uber-excited and made my appointment as soon as possible. The garments - two pair - were as varied as can be. The stockings that I had so wished for were "Suntan" which, for those of you in the know, is the exact shade of "Old Lady Brown" or "Hooters Girl Jiggle." They were thick, scratchy and hells-a-ugly. And I loved them. The other pair were large and looked like potholders - but for feet. So - should I ever be able to make and enjoy baked goods again, I could use my black, quilted legs to get them out of the oven. :)

They come with a spandex oversleeve and, once put on, appear more Uggboot-like than Hockey goalie -but a comparison could be made. These Lymphedema control garments will hold me in during the day - with a compression of 50 during the day - and 50 at night.

And even though both of these are as about as ugly as ugly can be - and my vain side screams when I think of sandal-weather and my gorgeous (useless) Mary Jane collection - I will grin and bear it.

Harry and his grandmother took me out to dinner at The Chop House the next day after my stocking-fitting to eat jovially since I could now wear real people shoes again. I was feeling quite good about my return to the pages of plus-sized prego fashion so when the tiny lady to my left grabbed my hand and begin lavishing me with compliments, I was glowing - both with motherhood and with the ease of basking in the love of an old, wise woman.

"You don't even look pregnant! I mean, you can't even tell! If someone didn't know you were pregnant - well - they'd just think you were just LARGE!"

Ah, yes - the wisdom of old age. Not only can it backhand you with an open-palmed compliment, but it can knock the wind out of your sails so fast that even months of hard-leg-wrapping work can prepare you for the fact that no matter how hard one tries to put vanity behind her - the non-filtered views of the old will always make you feel like a cow.

Who then ate an entire piece of cheesecake.

Thank God for fast-acting insulin shots!

Ugh.

Baby Harry - Cha-Cha-Chia!

He's getting bigger. Growing like a Chia Pet on Miracle Grow! Six pounds, six ounces.

I'm at 34 weeks. He's at 36.

At this rate - he's going to pop out a toddler!

Eep!

In other baby news - he's passing all of his Non-stress tests/Fetal Monitoring with flying colors (basically he's rewarded for kicking the crap out of me) and continues to do well with getting all of his fetal development points too. So far so good!

:)

HITLER!!! HITLER PANTS!!!

Since my being uber pregnant, sick, diabetic and wrapped like King Tut from the knees down - to say that romance was put on the back burner would be an understatement. Romance has gone from "maybe tomorrow" to "maybe in the summertime."

In order to try to jumpstart the need for romantic interludes seeing as how new babies and healing girly parts tend to put a damper on such things for some time, I decided to take charge one late weekend night. Our downstairs bathroom is right off the TV room and our Apple sits right on the other side. So while Harry was surfing on the net I went to the bathroom and, since my mobility is somewhat limited (as is my libido), I just left my pants and pantaloons pooled around my ankles as I shuffled to his side.

He was laughing hysterically at some You Tube video showing Hilter's supposed response to the tragic Ipad. He glanced up at me and pointed at the screen,: "This is HILARIOUS!"

"Uh huh," was my response as I continued to feel a cold breeze assault my netherregions. "Is it funny, darling?" I leaned against his arm.

He looked back at me and grinned. Oblivious.

"Fine!" I huffed and started scooting toward the couch while trying not to stumble around my pants still pooled at my stockinged feet.

"Wait - what?" he looked over at my retreating half-naked form. "Why are your pants off?"

"Just let it be duly noted that you chose HITLER over nookie. HITLER!" I yelled while yanking my pants to their rightful upright position.

"But, wait! I didn't know - I didn't see - I --- You really should watch this video - it's hilarious!"

"No," I said, stubbornly.

A few hours later we were going to bed. I was still smarting over my snub so as I was getting dressed - I dropped my drawers again, stuck my butt in the air and yelled "HITLER! HITLER PANTS!"

You'd think this game would be old by now.

But it's not.

It hasn't rekindled any inklings of romantic notions - but we do reassure one another that our girl and boy parts are still there through brief flashes and war cries of "HILTER!"

Oh what our neighbors must think...

Fashion Faux Pas and Fears

"I like your shorts."

I look down, notice my giant Harlequin print granny panties and looked back at my loving husband.

He smiled sweetly. "They're nice shorts."

And somehow he's still alive today to tell the tale.

Since my uterus has been invaded by a future Chuck Norris wannabe, my fashion choices have gone from limitless to limited - and not in a good way. I have stretch pants that can be tucked into my bra. I have panties that can be tucked under my chin and I have pads that now go in my bra and not to create "definition" or lift. My legs are still wrapped in the most wonderfulness of fake-fleshy peach bands - up to my knee and are padded all around with gauze, cotton, foam and sock-like material. In 2.5 weeks I will have three sets of knee highs that will be "Suntan" and made out of burlap sacks (at least that's what they feel like to me) and it's sad how much this will be a welcome change for me. Mainly because I will then be able to wear real shoes again (I had to attend my Baby Shower last weekend with plastic bags on each foot to protect me from the snow). They will arrive just in time for me not being able to bend over to lace them up. Yay! :)

I now go to six to seven appointments a week for the baby, my Gestational Diabetes (I'm up to taking 140 units a day of insulin. My track marks continue to be the envy of heroin addicts everywhere) and my legs. I am now busier than I was when I actually worked for a living. Now I work just to keep living. BUT - even though my health continues to be tested (sugars increasing due to big baby, UTI's that keep popping up, leg swelling keeps creeping in through the wraps...) Baby Harry continually gets good reviews. He's big - but developing well and progressing along - quickly and a little faster than I had anticipated.

Harry and I have (reluctantly) signed up for a Birthing Class on Saturday. I'm sure it will be educational, informative, long and will do enough to flip me out that I will probably never want to go through the actual birthing process.

Too late on that one, huh?

So - wish me luck and that I'll remain conscious throughout the video selections. How embarrassing would it be to be HUGELY pregnant and NOT be able to watch the videos of a woman giving birth? Something I'm going to have to do - eventually!

X-Ray Visions

Getting up at the crack of dawn, injecting myself with multiple units of insulin, grabbing a quick balanced breakfast and picking up my doting mother - all before 8am was not my idea of fun. But I still arrived right on time for my leg-rewrapping.

All of this seems very ho-hum until you factor in the fact that I was up every two hours the night before to rewrap my left leg which was THROBBING in pain. I can barely bend due to my big ol' baby belly but I had to figure out how to pull my leg up and carefully wrap my own foot, ankle and calf with layers of flesh-colored compression bandages. I cried. I screamed at them. But nothing helped. They ached - and I was all alone. With no help. I was the picture of perfection of pitifulness...

So as I hobbled into the Therapist's office my mother jumped the gun, "Can we talk about maintenance? She is going to need to do something else..." I could've kissed her.

Rebecca, my Lymphedema Therapist agreed that it may be easier just to see how I do this week and then go and have me measured for compression hose garments (sooo pretty! Ugh) by the end of the week. I can be re-evaluated after Baby Harry's arrival.

Afterwards we went for a Gestational Diabetes check up and giggled and laughed as Baby Harry, now 5lbs and 3oz, hid his face from the Tech's probing wand. But when she went to check on his organs - he was more than ready to show his junk to her. So I was given 4-D images of his "turtle" instead of his chubby face. Harry was happy to find out that his namesake already has hair since he, as a child, sprouted fuzz sometime around the 2 year mark and was very cue ballish before that. I came out with enough hair to braid so I wasn't too worried.

After slightly raising my insulin (yucky) - I was sent on my way so I dropped mom off and went home for a well-deserved nap.

One hour and not nearly enough z's later I was rudely awaken by the Perinatal Center: "Your test is showing fluid in your system. You have to go to Ob-Triage and have them check your lungs. Are you having trouble breathing?"

"I have a five pound baby laying on my lungs. Yes - I have trouble breathing," I said - in a sleep-like stupor.

"No, you need to go," she said.

"Fine," I said and gathered my things, and mother, and went to the local hospital.

After navigating the Labyrinth halls of Cabell Huntington, we finally find ourselves in "Labor and Delivery."

I wanted to run.

Although I was wary - I did one x-ray and, after three hours of baby heart monitoring, I was free to go with no fluid to be found.

It was scary.

And now I worry my baby will be affected by the Radioactive X-ray. Will he glow in the dark? Have X-ray Vision? Telekinesis?

Seriously - if I was a pregnant horse on a farm - they'd have already shot me.

Shoo Fly

I've read a lot about being pregnant. What to eat. What to do, sing, read and buy for baby's growth. And I've read that he feels what I feel. That my moods effect him.
But I'm starting to think my little Baby the Hut may be influencing me. Instead of getting "The Dropsies" my dexterity has increased. Instead of being forgetful, my organizational and cleaning skills are boosted.
Like last night. I'm lying in bed after having eaten my Diabetically approved diet food when a large black fly buzzed into my dimly lit bedroom. He flew past me and landed above my head. He hopped and veered toward the glowing tv showing some Indie drama I rented from Netflix. His course then changed and he was playing chicken with my head. Straight toward me he charged, hell-bent on collision - and grossing me out.
I quickly leaned right and tossed a straightened karate-chop hand in his general direction.
He died in my floor.
I had karate-chopped a fly in mid-air.
I'm the new Karate Kid.
Or Baby Harry is and I his chubby puppet.
WAX ON! WAX OFF!!!

Linebackers and Porn Stars

Baby Harry the IV is a-growin'. Even with me watching my fat intake, counting carbs and eating more protein than I ever did before - he still rivals that of most lightweight bowling balls - that is embedded in the right side of my tummy. :)

At the last Ultrasound the tech, who had very little personality, was like "Well, there's his boy parts!" That's the first thing we see filling up the large screen mounted at the end of the room. My baby boy is not shy about his genitalia. Kinda like "look what I got!!!" while the whole time keeping his tiny little hands glued to each side of his head. She then started measuring his belly, his head, his legs.

"33 Weeks" popped up on the screen. "He's measuring all over at 33 weeks --- and four pounds 13 oz." I was shocked. Two weeks ago at my last appointment at the Perinatal Center for my Gestational Diabetes - he was 3 pounds, 15 oz. He'd gained almost a pound in two weeks.

Yup - that's my boy for sure. I'm at 30 weeks - he's at 33 - an overachiever already!

"He's gonna be a Linebacker..." I heard Harry wonder from beside me.

"He's gonna be a BIG Linebacker," said the Ultrasound Tech while bouncing on my belly to encourage my already-stubborn child to move his hands.

So while I'm fighting with sometimes painful leg wraps for my Lymphedema, needles and pills for my G. Diabetes and sleepless nights with sparse fitful dreams of unattainable toilets - my baby grows. And grows. And grows.

Later that week Harry curled up on top of my stomach and cooed to my swollen belly parts. "Daddy loves you, Daaaaady looooooves youuuuu!" he said while rubbing in circles to which Baby Harry responded - by kicking him in the face. A lot.

It was sweet revenge.

Pretty Ugly

Those are my legs. Yup. Now many of you will only see slightly chubby gams stuck in what are called "Stockinettes" - but what you SHOULD be seeing is distinction. There are actual feet there. Ankles. Shins. Calves.

After being a Lymphedema patient and suffering since childhood with swollen feet and beyond I am finally getting the treatment I should have sought years ago - had I known it was out there.

The first step is taking my hardening, swollen limbs and putting on the Stockinettes. Size Large. Eeek. But really - they were that bad. And I had begin to build up scar tissue. Over this Stockinette will go toe gauze (weaved in and out so only my sparkly blue toes show through) A layer of fluffy wrap, two pieces of foam wrap on either side of my leg, two different sizes of Ace Bandages and three different sizes of Compression Bandages finish up the equation.

And it hurts.

Oh boy does it freakin' hurt.

The first time (in the picture above) they took off the layers - I was greeted with a horrific sensation of freshly burned flesh - only UNDER the skin. This was due to the immense amount of stretched skin - shrinking.

I've heard it hurts to be pretty - and it's flippin' torture to be ugly, too. :)

Friday I was re-wrapped. And I still can't put on my "shoes" (oh - they be awful blue and white and velcro monsters) by myself. But the new pain - coming from my even tighter wrappings, is unbearable. I can't sleep. Can't walk. But I'm told it will all be worth it.

Ya know - to have ankles again.

:)

Pregnant and Smoking!!!

I had another meltdown last night. To the extreme. But in my defense - my needle slipped. my $300 per refill medication spurted, along with a good amount of blood, and I stuck myself repeatedly trying to catch it. So I held my bleeding abdomen and cried choking, blinding sobs that made my nose run and my mascara head for my chin(s).

Cursing my tiny hands, I managed to sniffle, snort and bind up the courage to re-inject my insulin.

And I thought things couldn't get worse.

But today, when leaving work, I decided to go through the automatic car wash since my white Acadia looked, well, black. I sat in line for 30 minutes and waited patiently(ish) as each car went through and paid too much for their "Wave Automatic Wash." It was close to six p.m. by the time I pulled through the dryers and decided to go to Arby's to get a sandwich. Sitting in yet another line I noticed that the car in front of me was smoking really bad.

"Geez - get a new exhaust, Peeps," I said to myself as I rolled up my window.

Finally, it was my turn and I pulled to the window to get my sandwich.

"Do you need any sauces?" the man asked me.

"I uh - huh?" I was distracted. The smoke was still in front of my car - but the old Buick was gone. "Um -yeah - ketchup please." I was mesmerized. Large clouds of smoke were coming from the front of my Acadia like an old man on a park bench.

Now, I'm not a mechanic and I never claimed to have oodles of car knowledge - but I was pretty sure that the massive amounts of smoke - not a good thing.

So I got my sandwich and pulled over.

Quickly, I popped the hood latch and turned off the car and started feeling under the hood to find the release.

Which I couldn't find. I called Harry.

"Hello darling - where is the hood release?" I said (or something like this equally sweet and not at all demanding-like).

"Um - why?'

A nice couple from NC who were stretching their legs helped me find the latch release. "It's your radiator," the man said and then apologized for smoking around me when he found out I was pregnant. How sweet. :)

Long story short - it's my radiator. The fan isn't kicking on. Moses, the local dealership we buy from, came down and followed me back to the Service Station. I was given a tiny red Toyota to drive and I came home, clutching my cold Roast Beef and purse to my chest and finally, two hours after leaving work, I arrived home.

And couldn't get the key out of the ignition.

I was close to bursting into tears - again. For the third night in a row. Like a babyhead.

But instead I laughed the laugh of the insane and just kept tugging on the key. Finally after holding my breath, crossing my eyes, turning back on the car, moving the gear shift and then quickly yanking the key out - I was free.

And starved.

So I made it through the night - so far - without a meltdown (if you don't count my radiator) and without shedding a single tear (so far).

"Did you get home okay, then," Harry said when he called later.

"Yef, I ho okey," I said with a mouthful of food shoved in my piehole.

"Okay. Just making sure. Do you want a new car? Or mine? You can have my Escalade if you want it, you know that," he offered.

A smile, and ketchup, spread across my face.

It felt odd - it felt different - it felt - right. :)

Eat This, Not That - or That - or That...

I was officially diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes right before Christmas last year and since then- well - it's been like the armpit of hell on me. Not only do I have to grab my fat like a perv on a subway, but I have to inject it with insulin five times a day along with watching my carb-intake, staying away from refined sugar, taking about six pills a day and testing my blood sugar five times a day.

In a word? SUCKY.

I plan, pre-plan and constantly dwell on the "What will I eat?" subject - and, honestly, I'm to the point where I'd rather NOT eat than consume one more cheese and cracker snack.

Just when I think I get the hang of this rather complicated diet-balance - I get an email from the lady at the Perinatal Center berating me for eating Graham Crackers and Milk for a bedtime snack. A snack which I thoroughly enjoy since it doesn't make me gag while eating it like most of the other "meals" I have to choke down.

If it weren't for the (largely) flourishingly life in my belly - I'd have converted to anorexia as a New Year's Resolution.

Apparently, even though "Graham Crackers and 8oz of milk" is a listed and recommended snack in the information I got FROM their own nutritionist, they now say it is not a good snack idea.

So I had a minor meltdown last night.

Like some food-starved Jenny Craig survivor, I clutched the handles of my stainless steel fridge and just sobbed while my baby kicked me for being such a wuss.

They were more tears of frustration than out of want of a corndog or an Icee but c'mon- I'm hormonal and no one likes to be told they're wrong when they are trying SO HARD to be right. I was framed. Misinformed. Pissed as all hell.

So I cried while doling out some Dole pineappled into a measuring cup and sniffled while scooping out some nasty cottage cheese and sat down at the kitchen table to cry and eat a snack that I didn't want, wasn't hungry for and wasn't happy about eating.

The things we do for our children...

The good news and silver lining?

Baby Harry the IV is growing like a weed and is happy and healthy. He is a bit like Baby the hut and at 28 weeks - he is 3lbs and 15oz. Off the charts. But still -healthy. My sugar - though it spikes occasionally - is stabilizing and my weight is down five pounds from pre-pregnancy.

But I'm still mad.

So I look at the latest Baby Harry picture and I calm down. Some. :) That's the cord in front of his lips that looks like a Fu Man Chu mustache and the shadow of his ever-present hand over his head is making it look like he has Hitler hair. Not really sure where his nose is - hopefully he'll grow into it. And it will look like Harry's. Not mine. Lord help me - let him have Harry's pretty nose! :)

On a last, semi-related note - I quit my job. I put in my notice two weeks ago and decided to focus on my health instead. Unfortunately, I got suckered into working part-time and since my "last day" of Friday I've been at work every day. :)

Sigh. Only a few more months to go.

And then things will calm down.

Right?

Righ?!

:)

Riddle me This...

Is it better to feel guilty over leaving a job because you'll miss who you work with? Or stay at a job you love even if you aren't able to perform at 110% as expected- causing the beloved coworkers undue stress???
I may have just answered my own question on that 'un...

;)

HaPpY NeW YeAr!!!!