Crime & Punishment

I'm fine! I'm fine! The EVERYTHING IS OKAY alarm is going off at full volume, I promise. Much like our neighbor's car alarm two nights ago, in the middle of the night, to which we responded by getting up, muttering a lot of curse words before slamming the window shut.

The next morning, we discovered that another neighbor's house had been broken into around that time, along with a good half-dozen cars in the area. Including ours. Although "broken into" makes it sound more dramatic than the reality, because our cars were unlocked. coughMORONScough. Nothing was taken from mine, though the glove compartment and center console had both been opened and tossed around, but they didn't even snag my phone charger or the stack of Emergency Tissues. 

(Here's what a dork I am: When Jason told me about the break-in, I was like, OH MY GOD THE ERGO CARRIER WAS IN THE TRUNK DID THEY STEAL THE ERGO CARRIER?)

("Um. No. That wasn't really the kind of thing they were after, babe.")

("Well, shows how much THEY know, because that's a really expensive carrier and they could totally make like, $80 at a consignment store. I'D steal an Ergo carrier.")

("Just tell me you didn't leave your cell phone in the car last night, okay?")

Jason's handsfree phone thing was taken, but even this was no terrible loss because he hated it and wanted to get a new one, and he hated it because it was so ridiculously complicated and required five specific voice prompts to make a phone call that I do kind of get a kick out of the mental image of the thieves attempting to use it without the instructions and being like CALL PAWN SHOP MAIN. NO, NOT TEXT MESSAGE. PHONE COMMANDS. SYNC. HUH? WHO IS IT DIALING NOW? OH FUCK THIS PIECE OF SHIT.

So that happened. Also, I went to a farm as a preschool field trip chaperone yesterday. Guess which thing was worse.

Since Ezra was coming along for the ride, I dressed the boys in seasonal and easily-visible-in-a-crowd orange shirts, silently congratulating myself on being so smart and from learning so many things from my years and years of experience at maybe doing stuff like this a whole three times before. 

Let's see. A field trip to a pumpkin patch. In October. Just a few days before Halloween. The whole farm was freaking lousy with orange shirts. LOUSY WITH THEM.

This was pretty much the way the whole day went. Viewed through the zoom lens, with the sounds of my shrieking after them to COME BACK HERE BEFORE A GOOSE EATS YOU.

Baby pigs.

Baby rabbits.

Baby chicken nuggets.

(Ezra's like, "SIX-PIECE, PLEASE.")

And an absolutely mind-blowing, life-completing encounter with a real-life SHEEP, like OMG BAA BAA BAA SHEEP SHEEP SHEEP!

An emu. They liked it. I distrusted it.

This is either a wallaby or a kangaroo. I wasn't paying attention. Either way, I just loved its expression of fuck y'all, I gots a TENT. 

At some point Ezra got tired and insisted on being carried everywhere, and I suddenly realized how ill-equipped I am for the reality of THREE OF THESE PEOPLE. 

Ugh. Hell in a petting-zoo pen, you guys. Noah got bit by a turkey, but he probably deserved it. Much like that turkey will deserve all that delicious, delicious gravy next month.

Frolic.

Strut.

Hayride.

Trying to catch a decent natural-looking photo before he instinctively does that exaggerated CHEESE thing he does all the time now and...

Sigh. Never mind.

PS. New post up at The Stir. Plus lots of great stuff at Mamapop today and while no, I didn't technically write any of that particular great stuff it will have to do until I can formulate a proper sentence about last night's Project Runway finale that doesn't disintegrate into HORRIBLE SEETHING EARTH-TONED RAGE. 

Why We Probably Never Get Invited Places

This story requires some background. In fact, I'd say this story is probably a good 95% background. This is the kind of story I would submit to my creative writing professor in college and get back with the words YES, AND....???? scrawled after the ending because the denouement was basically me running out of time at library that morning and then pretending that the unsatisfying, abrupt ending was ON PURPOSE, like even the WHOLE POINT, god, nobody GETS ME, it was DEEP and SOCIALLY-COMMENTATING-Y.

Anyway! It is true, I was very misunderstood. Now let's all move on and pretend that this is a vaguely accurate rendering of the great state of Pennsylvania:

If you believe the original boundary-deciding people all had raging meth habits, I think it kind of works.

Now, I spent the first 19 years or so of my life in this general part of Pennsylvania:

Basically, if you picture New Jersey as the head and shoulders of some old dude in profile (AND I BET YOU DO NOW), I grew up tucked directly under his chin. Jason also spent a good chunk of his adolescence in the same area, only in the town where M. Night Shyamalan filmed Signs instead of the my neighborhood's claim to fame, which was the largest used car dealership in the state. Neither of these accomplishments have held up very well in recent years, what with the economy and The Happening. 

Point is, we like to think we know our way around that area pretty well. 

So when my dear long-time friend Temerity Jane sent us an invitation to her PA-based wedding -- complete with assurances that it was SO OKAY if we didn't feel like making the trek -- I waved off her protests and insisted that it was no big thang at all. I love weddings! And this wedding was like, 30 minutes from our parents' homes, because everything is 30 minutes from our parents' homes. Philly. The neck-hole parts of New Jersey. Malls. Amish people.

I thought the wedding was 30 minutes away because the invitation said: South Abington. Abington! I know Abington! I had friends who lived in Abington. The high school was in Jason's tennis league; they'd played them all the time. 30 or 45 minutes away, tops. 

Well, technically the invitation said South Abington Township. But Pennsylvania is literally crawling with random areas that like to declare themselves townships, much like Pennsylvania is not technically a state so much as a commonwealth and I STILL don't understand what that's all about, even after having to take a Pennsylvania history course in high school. And the south part, well, sure. Abington must have a...south...type...part. Right? So we'll give ourselves the full 45 minutes, then.  

See. EASY. We just had to go...down and to the left a little.

Oh, ho ho ho. And a ha ha ha.

The day of the wedding started off badly for us. I forgot the invitation on our fridge, thus leaving behind the actual address, thus having to be the complete asshole who sends desperate Twitter DMs to a BRIDE on her WEDDING DAY, mere HOURS before the CEREMONY.

(Jason suggested we just drive to Abington and see if any church or hotel names sounded familiar, because you know, how many weddings could there be?) 

Luckily, I managed to get the address before we arrived at Jason's parents house, where we quickly ditched the kids and changed our clothes and hopped back into the car. Abington, ho! We had exactly an hour before the ceremony would begin. We were good. As was my hair, for a brief few seconds in time.

I entered the address into our GPS and...

"Why is this thing saying Abington is 120 miles away?" 

"Uh. That's not right."

"Two hours? What the?"

Suddenly, it all became perfectly, horribly clear. Abington and South Abington Township had absolutely nothing to do with each other, besides some really fucking uncreative place-naming at some point. 

Now, don't get me wrong. That part of Pennsylvania is absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous. The views from the mountains roads -- especially this time of year -- are like stepping into every picture-perfect postcard of idealized autumn colors you have ever seen. It's a perfect spot for a wedding or weekend away.

But unfortunately, once you realize that you are suddenly TWO HOURS AWAY from a wedding ceremony that is due to begin in ONE HOUR, and that nothing -- short of rocket-jet-packs or some sort of PA Turnpike Wormhole -- is going to help you make that wedding on time...well, the beautiful fall scenery can go fuck itself, you know? 

Particularly if, on your way to the PA Turnpike, you hit every single construction detour or accident along the way. (One major road was closed completely because someone hit a deer, and the only way around the mess involved a ONE-LANE DIRT ROAD.) By the time we hit the seventeenth or fortieth detour because one quaint little town was having a craft fair on the ONLY ACTUAL THROUGH STREET THERE WAS, I was pretty much ready to kill the entire wiggly jagged side of Pennsylvania with my bare hands. 

The GPS told us it would be a two-hour drive. It took us two-and-a-half. We did indeed miss the ceremony by a good 50 miles, and by the time we finally arrived 1) my hair looked like total ass, and 2) I was completely and utterly paranoid that we would inadvertently walk into the reception at the PRECISE MOMENT the DJ or whoever was doing the whole, "And now, presenting for the very first time! Mr. and Mrs....wait, who the hell are those assholes?"

We crept in, literally peeking timidly around corners before stepping out, and did successfully manage to join the other guests with a minimum of OH HI WE'RE INSANELY LATE AND DUMB fanfare. 

I completely owned up to our dumbassity, though, rather than bullshit my way through conversations like, "The ceremony was beautiful! I especially liked the part where you...uh, walked in! And then said I do!" I understood why our attendance had taken several other guests by surprise, you know, being willing to drive ALL THAT WAY AND STUFF. Because...yeah. Okay. I see what you're saying now. 

The reception was awesome and there were all-you-can-eat mashed potatoes with cheese and crumbled bacon toppings. I ate a lot of mashed potatoes and two pieces of cake. I even got Jason out on the dance floor for a slow dance and TJ had ever-so-helpfully stocked the ladies' room with a basket of toiletry essentials, including a package of bobby pins that allowed me to salvage at least a little dignity out of my hair. 

And then we got in the car. And drove back. And everybody learned something very important about maps, but nothing about finishing up stories with any sort of actual point. 

THE END!

Eight Weeks

Dear Febreze No Spill Wood Diffuser Scented Thing In My Bathroom,

I hate you. I hate you so much. I don't even know what you smell like, except that once upon a time I thought it was fairly nice but now it's the loudest, most-gag-inducing smell I have ever smelled, and I once spent my first trimester in an office with a coworker who liked her English muffins "blackened" every single damn morning. I hate you especially hard when your loud, gag-inducing, flowery, musky, whatever scent combines with the smell of the toothpaste or the shampoo or GOD HELP ME, the drain de-clogger stuff we keep having to use because MY HAIR IS FALLING OUT and honestly I think that's only about half-pregnancy symptom and half-stress-from-dealing-with-YOU and maybe some memories of the aforementioned burnt English muffins. 

Hate!

Amy

PS. Even though Jason moved you to the guest bathroom down the hall I CAN STILL SMELL YOU.

***

Dear Chipotle,

I love you. I have always loved you. Why do you hate me all of a sudden? Why do you want to hurt me? What did I do?

Whatever it is I'm sorry,

Amy

***

Dear OB,

I have to bring my two-year-old to my appointment this afternoon. Please let me keep my pants on. 

Thank you,

Amy

***

Dear Pants,

I'm undoing the top button and you can just shut up about it, okay?

Whatever,

Amy

***

Dear Face,

You are eight weeks pregnant, not eight months. Simmer down there, Puffy McBloaterchin.

Jesus,

Amy

***

Dear Zah,

Where did you even find that book? Who told you? You're kind of freaking me out, man. 

Love you anyway,

Mommy

Impasse

A doctor flat-out told him to stop the chemo. An infectious disease doctor, there to discuss the team's inability to 100% identify whatever mysterious infection he has this time, with a side of brutal bluntness. "You need to stop this." 

He's not going to stop. He refuses.

A nurse told him it was time for a hospital bed in the living room. An at-home nurse, one he's known and trusted since his heart surgery, and her opinion was echoed by just about everyone at the hospital. "You cannot climb the stairs anymore."

He's not getting a hospital bed in the living room. Also refuses.

A transfusion brought his platelets up, a little. They are still lower than where they were after his LAST hospitalization and his LAST transfusion, and it's not like that was a good number either. They are trying to stop an ocean with a cork. 

He's going back for more chemo on Tuesday. 

I'm trying so hard to understand. It's not my body or my life or my fight. I'm trying to let go of anger at the toll this is taking on him, on my mom, on their relationship, on the entire family. Since he lost most of his voice to a different cancer over a decade ago, my mom is the one who schedules the chemo appointments she doesn't want him to go through, the one who struggles to get him up and down the stairs, and the one who is either the full-time caregiver...or alone in the house while he spends night after night in the hospital, knowing that she probably isn't going to get those nights back.  

I know he wants to be here when their house sells, for when my mom is settled in an affordable apartment, for every possible month where he can collect benefits that won't transfer to her. I know he has just as many reasons as anybody who has ever said, hell no, not yet, I'm not ready. 

I know he wants to be here in June. And that's the thing: I want him here too.

But I don't want this either. 

***

Wow, and I also don't want to end the week with an entry this depressing. It's like I whacked the keys with a sock full of bricks instead of typing with my fingers. So maybe for anyone who feels like skipping the previous bit (FLAWED PLAN IS FLAWED), here are some pictures from Ezra's birthday.

Peter doll from The Snowy Day, aka Our Latest Effort To Reinforce To Ezra That His Name Really Isn't THAT WEIRD WE SWEAR.

Awww.

Don't let the WTF expression fool you. Kid's been begging for his own toddler-sized broom and dustpan FOR MONTHS. He was thrilled with this one. 

A very long, gradual process...

Followed by open-mouthed, shocked realization...

And fist-clenching excitement...

DUPLO FARM DUPLO FARM DUPLO FARM 

In background: Extremely jealous brother banished to "go play with your Leapster or one of the bajillion birthday presents YOU JUST GOT FIVE MINUTES AGO or something."

In foreground: Portrait in smugness, ohhhhh yeah. 

(I do not have any pictures from his cake celebration, because we had ice cream instead. Also while I was setting up the camera he decided to put the candle out with his ringers instead. That too.)

Miracle Man

I've been waiting all day for more updates -- something more substantial than what I have pieced together right now -- so I could post something...well, MORE. But there's no nice narrative today.

The first text message I received from my mother after day two of chemo was a good one. No bad reactions. One more day of treatment and then three weeks off. He's amazing. He's a Miracle Man.

I put the phone down and walked away from it. When it rang during dinner I didn't even get up to check the caller ID. Shut up, telemarketers, we're all having a nice time over here.

Of course, it was my mom. The bad reaction just came later this time. Fever, shakes, a trip to the ER and another infection. Looks like pneumonia again. White blood cells and platelets have cratered. Chemo was canceled for today. Instead, a blood transfusion, perhaps. He's on a floor that's not quite the ICU and not quite the general garden-variety sick-level population. Maybe he'll go home tomorrow, or the next day.

And I don't know anything more than that. I don't think this is nearly as serious of a reaction as last time, but I don't know if it will meet his hypothetical bar of "bad enough to call it quits on chemo" that he set for himself. I don't know what I think he should do anymore. I don't know how I feel about any of it anymore, except for an oppressive and weary numbness. I don't know how many times I'll tell this same story without ever typing "The End." 

I don't want that, but nobody wants this, either. Fuck you, cancer, for taking away every good option. 

The Thing I Didn't Tell You About Because I Don't Like Making You Worry

(Edited to add for clarity: This is a story about something that happened LAST THURSDAY. As in, before I posted yesterday's ultrasound results, which were YAY and GOOD. Yes, I have chosen to discuss my pregnancy before the three-month-mark, come good or bad or disaster, because...well, it's my blog and I'm like that. Have always been like that, actually, because I very much depend on the support network I have here...again, come good or bad or disaster. I did not mean for this story to sound insensitive -- it happened, it was scary, it was okay.)

(Seriously, about that last bit: IT WAS OKAY.)

On Thursday morning, after Noah's occupational therapy appointment, I chatted with his therapist and breezily, brazenly -- and completely impulsively -- blurted out the pregnancy news. I'm still not sure why, because she in no way fits into my squishy parameters of Invisible Internet Person and/or Real Life Person In Whom I'd Depend On In The Event Of A Miscarriage Anyway. But the words fell out of my mouth, and that was that. The news was out. And now that I've mentioned it, do you mind watching my kids for two quick minutes because OH MY GOD I HAVE TO PEE SO BAD.

I dashed down the hall to the restroom, which was occupied, and I bounced from foot to foot impatiently for what seemed like FOREVER until the door opened up. 

I was barely done sighing with relief over making it to the toilet when I realized I was bleeding.

I stared at the reddish spot on the paper and blinked a few times, my brain immediately reminding me to NOT PANIC, THIS HAS HAPPENED BEFORE. Twice before, once during each pregnancy, each time the result of a raging urinary tract infection and nothing more. I took a deep breath and stood up...

And immediately saw the bloody clot-like thing in the toilet. That had...definitely not happened before.

Looking back, I have to commend myself for not simply slumping to the floor in a weepy fit. That was not even an option. My children were in the lobby waiting area, surrounded by other kids and parents and center staff and we needed to get home and get lunch in time for Noah to catch the school bus and get Ezra down for a nap.

Once all of that happened, I thought, I could deal with this. But not until then. 

I went back out and weakly collected the boys and waved goodbyes and hustled them out to the car. I drove us home, ordering myself to STOP THINKING ABOUT IT and focus on the road, which had about as much impact as if I randomly commanded Noah to stop talking about Star Wars all the damn time. 

Of course, I mentally chided. OF COURSE. Way to go, telling people, including blurting it out all willy-nilly to semi-casual-acquaintances! Way to go, telling your mom! Next time just kick her directly in the head yourself, and save some time. You thought this was "meant to be?" That you "deserved" this? Or some shit? You're a goddamn pollyanna dumbass, Amy. 

(Let me tell you, there is nothing more fun than trying to navigate Washington, DC-area traffic in the pouring rain while in the midst of an existential crisis of faith.)

I got us home and slapped together some peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches before dashing into the bathroom, convinced that I was going to witness some horrible horror show of pureed bloody dreams, but...there was nothing. Nothing except a slight burning sensation when I peed that I hadn't noticed before. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Yes. Once again, I managed to get myself COMPLETELY and IRREVOCABLY keyed the fuck up over yet another UTI. I needed cranberry juice and some antibiotics, not a D&C and some mourning sweatpants with a giant box of wine. I was fine, otherwise, and still fully pregnant with a fully alive little blob-thing.

Last night, I threw up for the first time. And I was totally okay with it. Grateful, even. 

PS. My dad made it through a session of chemo yesterday with flying colors. It was a "lite" low-dose day and they're upping the meds back to 11 today, so I know he could use your thoughts/prayers/virtual-fist-bumps/whatevers. Let's turn this string of good news into an honest-to-God streak, already. 

Seven Weeks, Take Two

I am currently in possession of a sure-to-scan horribly photo of a healthy, seven-week-old 3D-ified blobby thing. Said blobby thing is totally getting photobombed by a giant yolk sac, which I actually thought was my baby's head for most of the ultrasound until the doctor corrected me. Be careful what you commit to calling "cute" out loud during these things, I guess is the lesson I'd like to pass on to y'all. 

Said blobby thing is also in possession of a nice, strong heartbeat. So. Breathe out, and stuff. We're a go for baby. 

Two

Ezra. You are sunshine and stubbornness. Independent, yet anything but a loner. A mimic, but with your own ideas about anything. Easygoing right up until the moment you've been pushed just far enough. Fearless, except for when you are not. 

You still seem so small to me, but your personality is as oversized as the 2T hand-me-downs currently are. You make friends everywhere you go, charming adults with your smile and cheerful greetings and offers of plastic cupcakes or empty teacups. You are easily the best two-year-old conversationalist I've ever met, chatting about everything from shoes to elbows to WALL*E to choo choos to meatballs.

You can kick a ball or hit it off a tee with a bat, you think stretching your arms behind you while crouching before tossing them up in the air counts as jumping, you can walk down the stairs alone, slowed only by your tendency to stop and applaud for yourself. You watched some big kids breakdance once and now like to put your head on the ground and kick your feet when music comes on. If your big brother can do it, well dammit, you're going to give a good try too. You love to climb and run and scream and laugh and dance. 

I've already had some twinges of regret over the past two weeks that you will probably not remember the time when you were our baby, our youngest. When you were the one doing everything new and different and for the first time, the unsteady rocket-powered center of our world. But you were our baby, my baby, the little boy with the smile that made all of us smile, the one who -- no matter how tired or stressed or out-of-patience I felt -- could instantly lift my mood just by lifting you out of your crib. "Uppy!" you'd say. 

"Wuv woo," you also say. 

"Ock and ting!" you demand at bedtime, referring to a new step in the routine that you now insist on. We curl up together in the old rocking chair, wrapped in a blanket, and sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. You put your head on my chest and hum along, and like everything else you do in the world, it makes me simply, beautifully happy. 

Ezra's Second Birthday
Music: Here Comes Your Man by Meaghan Smith

It's All Downhill From Here. Check Back In June.

The same thing happened with Ezra -- unlike the first time*, I wasn't entirely sure of our conception date so every attempt at dating the pregnancy at the doctor's office resulted in a constant march backwards. I'd show up at an appointment thinking I was six weeks along and leave only five weeks. Then the next week it turned out that the bean-thing on the ultrasound was still only measuring five-and-a-half weeks. The doctor kept tossing out potential dates like, did you guys maybe do it on the 10th? Maybe the 14th?

Finally I just said something like, "Look, I think what's really important here is that my husband didn't go on any business trips this month, so whatever date you wanna go with, I can safely guarantee that he was home, present and likely wanting to have sex." And Jason nodded confidently in agreement. 

*January 5, 2005. 20 minutes after Lost ended, give or take 15 minutes for fast-forwarded commercials on the TiVo and probably brushing my teeth because I like to keep the romance alive and stuff.

This time, thanks to the wonderful world of iPhone apps, I'd actually kept a goddamn record, though I didn't really mean to. I was just bored and trying out the different features on a period tracker app I'd purchased. I wanted to see what happened if you added "Intimate" as an event. (It displayed as a little red heart. I was oddly disappointed, though I don't know exactly what else I was expecting. Porno MIDI, maybe.)

I still got tripped up though, because there was the LIKELY date of conception -- the one that fit into the normal range of normal cycles that normal people have -- but then the ultrasound lined up perfectly with the oddball date of conception, a full week later. At a point where the fertility books will start talking about luteal phase disorders and overly mature eggs and blah blah blah anovulatorycakes. 

Anyway, wow. This is all FASCINATING to you guys, isn't it? Behold! I am pregnant! The scope of my universe is now completely laser-focused on the state of my womb! I have nothing else of interest to offer! BABY BABY BABY OVARIES VAGINAS.

Okay. Wait. I THINK I started out this entry with some point about walking into a doctor's office seven weeks pregnant and walking out only six weeks. Which doesn't sound like that big of a deal, but still. I felt robbed. Those seven days equaled PROGRESS. And they were MINE. They meant being the mother of a blueberry-sized clump of something instead of a lentil! They meant arm buds and a visible heartbeat! They meant a May due date instead of June! They meant I was beyond the halfway point of the first trimester! Halfway through the dangerous miscarriage zone!

(Haaaalfwaaaay through the. DANGER ZONE. I'll take you. Riiiight into the...)

(OH MY GOD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.)

(OH. RIGHT. A LOT OF THINGS.)

And those extra days meant that I had officially not puked for longer than I've ever previously managed to not puke. I mentioned this to my doctor, who nodded and said that yeah, that would make sense because it's still so early. "Probably still coming," he said, and as I briefly added the scene to my imaginary montage of All The TImes I Have Wanted To Lunge Over His Desk With An Ortho-Tri-Cyclen Pen As A Weapon. 

On the one hand, I would love an easy first trimester. To not throw up constantly and lose weight and constantly fight the urge to stab well-meaning strangers in the neck with pens. I would CERTAINLY love an easier pregnancy than my last one, with the six full months of puking and frequent blacking out from dehydration just because I forgot to drink some water IN THE PAST 15 WHOLE MINUTES OR WHATEVER. It'd be GREAT to stick with my current batch of uncomfortable-but-subtle symptoms (so much gas, you guys). 

But on the other hand, I am still very much the same neurotic little pregnant person that I was way back in 2005, when a day without vomiting meant OH NOES SOMETHING IS WRONG. I'm not even going to tell you how often I took pregnancy tests that first time around: I would seriously get it into my head that I wasn't feel pregnant "enough" all of a sudden and for some reason peeing on a stick at 9 weeks pregnant and seeing fresh lines made me feel better. Don't even attempt to argue with my past self about the many many logical and scientific flaws in that plan. I would not have listened, and perhaps would have shanked you with a pen. 

Today's most glaring pregnancy symptom (beyond an inability to LET LAST THURSDAY'S EPISODE OF PROJECT RUNWAY GO) was a craving for foods that I typically wouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole (bologna and cheese sandwiches? Gross.), and foods that I know I probably SHOULDN'T eat while pregnant, but oh. The craving. (I ate a bologna and cheese sandwich. It was gross. But also heavenly, for at least the first half.) And then I was overcome with a huge desire to take a nap. 

(I started typing this entry instead. That probably explains a lot.)

(Okay. I just stared at a light switch for 10 whole minutes there. I should probably wrap this up.)

In summary: 6w3d. Old gross married people have sex sometimes. Ovaries do the darnedest things. Not puking. Yet. Crazy is totally a symptom, neurosis, pens, naps and bologna. I'm sorry, Internet.

How It Happened

Well, sweeties, sometimes, when two Spider-Mans love each other very very much...

Okay. Not going into THAT kind of detail or anything, but still. 

I'm pregnant.

I'M PREGNANT. 

For those of you who were thoroughly gobsmacked by this news, trust me, I'm only about a week ahead of you on the WHAAAA? And HUHHHHH? And HOLYSHIIIII?

But let's back up. Once upon a time, there was a crazy girl who, in the end-stage throes of baby fever, practically had to twist her husband's arm into having just one single little puny baby. And after many many many months and a couple years of trying, they agreed to stick with that one single (not-so-little-or-puny) baby. Until said baby was all of five weeks old, when her husband suddenly announced, "THIS IS FUN. LET'S DO THIS AGAIN."

And so, after many many many months and a couple years of trying, they had another baby. Who was definitely supposed to be the last baby. The crazy girl even thought so too, most of the time. But then...I don't know. The crazy spread, and her husband just never seemed ready to make that appointment for the big snip, and the feeling of "completeness" that everybody talks about never really settled in to stay. Especially because dammit, these babies are AWESOME. How could you not want more awesome babies like these?

So the consensus became, "Okay, we'll keep that option open, for later, for someday. Probably not super-soon though." 

Meanwhile, they both kept not-so-secretly hoping for an accident, just to spare them the actual decision-making involved with OH YES, WHAT THE HELL, LET'S DELIBERATELY HAVE THREE WHOLE SOLID CHILDREN.

***

We found out about my dad's leukemia on September 15th. On the 16th, Jason called the babysitter and took me out for dinner. At some point during this dinner, he looked me in the eyes and said, "I think I'm ready for another baby." 

I said, "Me too."

I was already pregnant, but of course we didn't know that.

***

Over the next couple weeks the topic seemed to come up in conversation a lot, with friends and family, and I tried the idea on out loud, saying that yes, we were definitely going to start planning to think about actively trying for another baby. Just to see how crazy it sounded, on a scale of one to 10. Maybe a seven? 

But of course, it was still all just big talk at that point, because my cycles have been just as crazy as ever over the past year. 35 days, 47 days, 56 days. We couldn't even start trying after Jason's declaration because my period would just. Not. Show up. Annoying!

I blamed the stress of this month, of course, and wondered if maybe it was a bad idea to start trying -- already a tough process for us -- in the midst of all the illness and grief and turmoil. When Jason had his health scare I couldn't even fathom the cruelty of everything -- here we'd gone from happily planning our future as a family of five to...well. Whatever. Not even worth discussing.

I had a dream about a positive pregnancy test the night before I had to drive Jason to an upper endoscopy appointment last Tuesday, because he'd be knocked out with anesthesia. I dropped him off and stopped at a grocery store for a box of tests -- I was nearly two weeks late, though I scoffed at myself in the self-checkout line anyway. 

I drove home and took a test...which was screamingly, distinctly positive before I even had a chance to STAND UP. I stared at it for awhile and burst out laughing. 

Then I scribbled HOLY SHIT!!!!! on the inside of a blank note card before shoving it and the test into an envelope, which I gave to a groggy, still-woozy Jason in the car immediately after picking him up after the procedure.

***

I thought I was about seven weeks along, so when the doctor had trouble finding anything on the ultrasound, I was concerned. When he found the gestational sac, I was relieved, until we all realized that it looked completely empty. 

"Oh," I said, looking at Jason. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I even bothered thinking something this good was possibly going to happen. I should of known.

"There it is!" the doctor announced. "You're only about six weeks. Do you have long or...just kind of weird cycles sometimes?"

I was laughing already. "You have NO IDEA." 

***

So. There it is. The most planned-for unplanned pregnancy in the history of ever. I'm going back next Monday for another ultrasound to confirm the heartbeat. (We all saw something definitely flickering, but it was too small to see for absolute sure.) I'm actually feeling pretty good, apart from the headaches, sore boobs, fatigue, bloating and lightheadedness. You know, the usual. I have no idea how in sam hill we're going to afford to buy a damn minivan and I guess I need to make good on those plans to move the boys into a single room and I have to organize the hand-me-downs and and and and etc. 

I am so happy, you guys.