Galled

The third trimester of this pregnancy has not been a particularly easy one, and up until...oh, the last 36 hours or so I was perfectly content to chalk most of the unpleasantness up to stress. Everything DID start going downhill right around the time my dad died, what with the false labor and mysterious aches and pains and the throwing up and the weight loss and then a delightful little interlude of "pre-bedrest" and "pre-pneumonia" and "pre-let's-not-panic-here-but-seriously-you-need-to-stop-getting-sick-and-put-some-weight-on."

Then, over the weekend, my hands and feet started itching. And suddenly -- well, "suddenly" after HOURS of unrelenting itching and twitching and scratching and an entire bottle of moisturizer and  -- a lot of things started to make sense. Stress? Yeah, sure, some of it. But also, gallbladder. 

I don't know how long things haven't been quite right in that department. I managed to develop a bunch of the other symptoms of cholestasis of pregnancy (the ones that could also be symptoms of like, 400 other things) before the most common, telltale one, bizarrely enough. But it's not like I'm doubled-over in Upper Right Quadrant Pain or jaundiced or anything. I'm just...pukey and itchy. And...sensitive-like in the Upper Right Quandrant Area. 

And all of these symptoms should correct themselves and go away soon after I deliver the baby. 

Which will happen tomorrow. Baby IKEA's eviction notice will be served right on schedule, first damn thing in the morning. 

Wish us luck. Catch ya on the flip side. 

39 Weeks

I would like to officially and formally take issue with my own damn post title here -- technically, according to the LMP math, today should be my due date. Early ultrasounds bumped me back a week, only for the later scans to once again suggest that I was actually farther along than we thought and jibed with the May 30th hypothesis. But we officially stuck with the original U/S dating and a June 4th due date and I didn't really care all that much at the time but for the record I SUDDENLY CARE AN AWFUL LOT ALL OF A SUDDEN. 

(I do not care, however, about making sure I've remembered to put on a bra before taking photos of myself anymore.)

(Or about looking anything other than really bizarrely kind of mean.)

Anyway, it's a holiday and I'm not going to waste any of y'all's time with stories from my weekend, EVEN THOUGH it included the thrilling additions of my husband becoming temporarily, thoroushly crippled from a cortisone injection in his back on Friday and Ezra puking down my shirt on Saturday and I stress-organized the playroom, like down to making sure that different action figures were sorted into separate bins by movie, trilogy or AT LEAST genre. Needless to say, it was not exactly the likely-last pre-baby weekend I had in mind, what with me babying and waiting on two other human beings instead vice versa and that's about when I took those scowly-type pictures. 

But then Tracey and Charlie came over last night and brought baby clothes and dinner and dessert and Kung Fu Panda One for Noah (don't even try to tell him he doesn't need to include the "One" in the title; he has seen the marketing for Kung Fu Panda Two and THERE WILL BE ORDER) and played race cars on the kitchen floor with Ezra and everything actually ended up being pretty damn okay and fun. PLUS I think Charlie's cooking has magical healing powers, because Jason can actually WALK today. Which is nice, for a change. 

So, in other words, we're all going to go play outside for awhile. Just the four of us. Before the BOOM EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT NOW FOREVER thing happens. 

Anytime Now, Fetus

Seriously, baby. THERE IS NOTHING MORE I CAN DO FOR YOU.

There's a freaking custom-made butterfly mobile here, for crying out loud.

And wall decals. That I will apply more of, so help me God, out of sheer boredom. Your call.

And if you think perfectly-color-and-damask-pattern-coordinated hoot owl toys just HAPPEN, well, they don't. This is nesting OCD driven to the breaking point, baby. 

That's you, through the ages. We're very excited at the prospect of adding some less-blobby-looking portraits to the gallery.

I have every kind of cloth diaper and cloth diaper accessory imaginable. 

And about four dozen swaddling blankets for you to poop on and/or reject outright.

Slings? Wraps? Pouches? Mei teis? Ergo and Ergo accessories? YOU KNOW IT, HIPPIE.

*BITES KNUCKLES*

So you can see, Fetus I Have Nicknamed IKEA, Even Though The Only Things In Your Room That Came From IKEA Are Some Storage Baskets, Hangers And One Throw Pillow, we are ready for you. We have everything your little body could possibly need, and I am literally itching with anticipation at the thought of getting my hands on your little body already to dress and diaper and swaddle and rock and wait a second what's that over in the corner...

*HEAD EXPLODES*

(PS. Everything pictured/linked here was bought and paid for by me and my own self, save for three super-cute diapers from reader Leanne who made and sent them as a gift. Everything else is either stuff I personally use, love, highly recommend and/or recently purchased in a fit of I AM COPING WITH MY GRIEF THROUGH THE POWER OF CUSTOM ORDERS ON ETSY.) 

NBY

NO BABY YET.

For the record, I promise -- pinkie swearsie promise -- that updating my blog or Twitstream or whatever will indeed be among the very first things I'll do, should anything interesting happen re: my womb. In the meantime, you can safely assume that radio silence just means I am sleeping. 

Or, in the case of the last 24 hours, that I was alternating between sleeping and running around like a crazy person trying to take care of things related to my two pesky existing children. Oh, and puking. Because why not? It's the third fucking trimester, let's get all NOSTALGIC for the first 12 weeks for no particular reason. 

Yesterday was absolutely ACTION PACKED, I tell you. First up: an OB appointment, just to determine how incredibly NOT in labor I currently am, or will be in the foreseeable future. Thanks, cervix, you lazy good-for-nothing piece of...

Ahem! Right after that, I had to waddle my way over to Noah's school to meet with the school psychologist. We had his most recent evaluation conducted privately, through our insurance, and apparently the act of handing over the results to the school district triggered some kind of MASSIVE PROCEDURAL CLUSTERFUCK OF PROCEDURES, including additional reviews, in-classroom assessments, parent conferences and another entire whole damn IEP meeting. (Which is scheduled to take place approximately 10 minutes after I give birth.)

The conference yesterday was an almost two hours long touchy-feely-fest, during which I was asked to use adjectives to describe what I loved most about Noah. A terribly unfair thing to ask an emotional nine-million-month pregnant lady, I think. I've gotten very good at objectively discussing our challenges and concerns with special education professionals, but whenever any of them leave an opening for me to get all schmoopy about my kid, I very quickly tend to tear up and be all, "HE IS MY HEART! MY EVERYTHING! HE IS A BETTE MIDLER SONG DRESSED IN MISMATCHED OLD NAVY! WEEEEEEEP!"

After THAT, I had to take Ezra to the pediatrician for...well, let's just call it a Fruit Sticker Related Concern. I'd first noticed the Concern on Monday, and had been alternating between Neosporin and YES, Vaseline ever since, but while I was meeting with the psychologist, Jason had inspected the Concern and of course, called the doctor immediately because MAYDAY MAYDAY WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE OF CHAFING.

So I took him, patiently explaining to the doctor that I actually wasn't all that Concerned about the Concern, but figured it was better to get it checked out now, rather than wait too long and suddenly be dealing with a newborn baby AND an infected, gangrenous Concern. Also: My husband still owes me a trip into the attic to find a missing swing part. I'm just trying to keep everybody happy here.

The doctor was also not Concerned. A little more Neosporin and Vaseline. He'll be fine. 

Then I came home and ate some brownies. Then got wicked heartburn, threw up the brownies, and took a nap. Though "nap" is probably misleading. More like I went to bed at 4 pm and never really got back up. 

Yep. These last few days are going to be super exciting. Today I have big plans to take care of some fingerprints on the downstairs windows and maybe give those brownies one more try. If all goes to plan, I'll be in bed by 3 pm this time. 

I Know

I climbed into bed late last night. My nerves were on edge, my brain refused to stop inventorying and obsessing over the pre-baby to-do list, all the things that I MUST do, SHOULD do, WOULD LIKE to do, and was that a contraction or is the baby just stretching and jamming limbs into tender organs? I put my hands on my belly and tried to will the sensation to memory, because this is it. The last time. The last few days. Oh, but I'm so tired and sore and done. And yet not ready. Not enough time. 

One week to go. Short and endless and terrible. 

Eight weeks since he died. Like it was yesterday and forever ago, and also terrible.

"He just wanted to hold that baby!" my mom wailed, out of the blue, the last time we talked. She's still prone to bursting into tears at random moments in conversation, and no topic seems to be free of unexpected emotional mines for her. I don't know what else to say except to murmer "I know, I know."

I said the same two words to him, eight weeks ago, over and over again. Shorthand for I know you want to be there. I know you won't be there, that you can't be there. I know you tried. I will always know how hard you tried. 

And yet. Not ready. Not enough time. Not fair. I know. 

38 Weeks

THINGS I DID THIS WEEKEND:

1) Got a pedicure, had total Blush-and-Bashful moment when the bright, funky royal blue color I chose in honor of Baby Boy Number Three dried way too dark and now looks all black and goth-y. I don't really pull off "goth-y" too well, even when I'm NOT wearing giant maternity caftans with extraneous underboob ties and ribbons. Then again, I seriously just tried to describe blue toenail polish as "funky." I AM HOPELESS. 

2) Saw Bridesmaids, had moment of brilliant inspiration during a scene that (SPOILER) featured someone vomiting on someone else's head that, wow, this would be the BEST TIMING EVER for my water to break all over the place. In fact, the crowd would probably have thought it was an interactive part of the show and given me a standing ovation.

3) Went to IKEA in search of a medicine cabinet and a second diaper pail. Argued with universe that fine, I'm not mad you didn't take my going-into-labor-during-Bridesmaids suggestion, because I actually think IKEA is EVEN BETTER and MORE POETIC-LIKE. So come on! Come onnnnnnnnn. 

    3a) Also had conversation with another mom in IKEA who tried to offer me some first-timer advice re: kid-sized plastic hangers. It was, in fact, good advice (YOU WILL NEVER, EVER HAVE ENOUGH KID-SIZED PLASTIC HANGERS) and I felt like an asshole for being like, "yeeeeah, this is baby number THREE, I'm hip to the whole hanger thing," but then she was like, "YAY LET'S TALK ABOUT CHILDBIRTH AND EPISIOTOMIES" and I had to be all, "oh, I actually had c-sections" and then she said, "CHEATER JUST KIDDING HAVE YOU CONSIDERED A VBAC?" and I learned a valuable lesson: Just play dumb and nod the next time someone offers you advice about kid-sized plastic hangers. 

    3b) Purchased medicine cabinet and diaper pail, also got a really good deal on napkins, a cutting board, and...a shitload of kid-sized plastic hangers. Seriously, you always need more than you think you do. 

4) Installed shiny new medicine cabinet in master bathroom, super-conveniently over this patch where I attempted to touch up the wall with the wrong color paint four years ago. I've been meaning to get the right paint and fix it for awhile now, but. You know. Things. Life. Shit to watch on television. But now I have a new medicine cabinet and organized drawers and no more expired medication taking up room and I even hung up some artwork and decorated and shit and now I have a very pretty master bathroom THAT NO ONE WILL EVER SEE because who ever goes in your master bathroom besides your own damn self? It's not like I can be all, "oh, I know we've lived here for four-and-a-half years but how about a tour of the upstairs? But only the nursery and the master bath. And a couple of the closets. And Imma gonna have to ask you to close your eyes while you walk through the master bedroom, because that still looks like we just moved in three weeks ago."

    4a) THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD JUST WATCH TV INSTEAD.

5) Did not have a baby or anything even close to it. 

Look at that! A goddamned jewel tone. I think it contrasts nicely with the master bathroom OH WAIT A SECOND...

Oh heeeeey, just chilling out next to my new medicine cabinet and toilet all casual-like, wishing I could get a better angle of the other stuff we hung up including those funky* clay pots right there but whatever I'm so sneaky.

*STOP USING THAT WORD, DORKWAD.

Praise You Like I Should Even Though It's Like, Soooo Embarrassing

(SPOILER ALERT: No baby yet.)

You know, I've been making fun of my husband a lot around here. And honestly, he probably only deserves...eh, let's say about a third of it. (THE SWING. THE SWINNNNNNGGGGGG.)

The rest is a combination of good-natured ribbing and the natural reaction to seeing your partner up and relatively spry and able to function like a normal human being while you loll around on the couch, grunting like a beached whale, wishing you had the ability to whip other people into a nesting-like frenzy using only the power of your MIND, like, seriously? Would it kill you to install the car seat already? I know you SAY it can wait until the baby is born and you'll do it on the way to pick us up at the hospital but I WOULD FEEL BETTER IF I COULD SEE IT DONE AHEAD OF TIME SO THAT I MAY FUSS AT AND CRITICIZE YOUR ABILITIES IN THE PRIVACY OF OUR OWN DRIVEWAY.

But really, Jason has been so, so great. Flowers for no reason. A constantly replenished stash of my favorite bath thingies from Lush. Back rubs and belly kisses and moving heaven and earth to make sure he never misses a karate class or swimming lesson with the boys because the man just freaking adores his kids and being a dad. He has brought me every possible food item I have craved, from boxed chocolates to ice cream to Indian food to burritos to matzo ball soup to deli pickles to this one fancy kind of imported Italian olive that's really hard to find but he tracked it down and bought two giant jars of them. He's made homemade chocolate pudding and tray after tray of brownies and one time I was like, "mmmm risotto" and BAM, he was up and making me some risotto. 

He's put on more weight than I have, since I always puked up a significant portion of all those delicious, high-fat cravings, and he had no such difficulty. 

And I don't even know where to begin with everything he did for me when...you know. The stuff with my dad. That whole...thing. When my dad died. 

(Hellooooo mental compartmentalization! Welcome to Topics Amy Hasn't Really Been Dealing With For Awhile That Occasionally Are Like, OH YEAH, FUCK, STILL HURTS LIKE ALL HELL, MOVING ON.)

And! Here's the other thing: Back in January, Jason slipped while carrying Ezra down the stairs. He did that thing you do, when you have no choice but to protect the child in your arms at all costs, and took the full brunt of the fall, smack dab BAM, right in his lower back. 

It never healed, and after MONTHS of getting waved off by various doctors, he got an MRI. Which revealed a pretty significant injury to a couple discs in his back. His doctor advised surgery. Jason said no, he can't have the surgery yet, because I am pregnant and need him. And then I'm going to have a baby and I will need him. So no three-week-recovery period is going to work, just yet. He's been getting by with physical therapy and medications, until the time comes when he decides that I won't need him quite so much. 

(For the record, I told him to have the surgery if he felt he needed it, because clearly he's been in a terrible amount of pain and that sucks and I will ABSOLUTELY SURVIVE. But he prefers to wait and try the less-invasive measures first anyway. Which are working pretty well! As evidenced by his ability to get up in the attic and LOOK FOR MISSING SWING PARTS AT LEAST IN THE HYPOTHETICAL SENSE.)

In other words, my husband is deserving of all kinds of hyperbolic adjectives. But he'd rather me mostly post "funny" stuff about how he's deliberately annoying the crap out of me re: his refusal to get sucked into my wormhole of nesting insanity than get all goopy and embarrassing about him on the Internet.

(Though he DID install all those nice closet organizers. SAINT! HEAVEN-SENT! AMAZING! A GOD AMONG MEN!)

I ordered myself a pair of necklaces a few months ago (during a previously-mentioned Emotional Etsy Rampage). I wanted something with the kids' initials on it, and decided to go with this one from Soul Peaces, with three tiny stars and a crescent moon. And then...I splurged and bought a second version, with just one star, because there are four people I wanted represented. Who deserved to be represented, no matter what other manner of nonsense you may have read about them on the Internet. 

From top, left to right, the stars are stamped J for Jason, N for Noah, E for Ezra and HA HA YEAH RIGHT LIKE YOU'RE GETTING THAT OUT OF ME THAT EASY. 

PS. My very first post is up at Mamadojo, the new companion/trilogy blog-thing to Mamapop and Moxiebird! 

Today's No Baby Yet Update

There is no baby yet.

Self-portrait as Walking Fetus Jail, From Which There Is No Escape, Also No Real Flattering Angle, My LANDS.

PS. No, Jason still hasn't looked in the attic for the missing swing part. 

PPS. But he did make me a batch of fudge brownies (from scratch!) and let me eat pretty much all of them.

PPPS. Then he encouraged me to take a nice long bubble bath and even lit some candles. 

PPPPS. Then he was all, "Sex can totally start labor, riiiiiight?"

PPPPPS. No.

PPPPPPS. OBVIOUSLY. 

In Which I Am A Truly Pleasant Person & A Joy To Be Around

Obligatory: No baby yet. I am not in labor NOR I am in anything even approaching what could be considered a good mood.

I slept like crap last night because I'm just so all-around lumpy and uncomfortable AND THEN I had a dream that I was trapped on an MTV spinoff/prequel show called Jersey Shore Babies and was responsible for changing an infant Snooki's diaper AND THEN I woke up with a terrible headache -- like a why is there not someone I can hold personally accountable for this amount of pain and thus murder with my bony bare hands style headache. Then I ate some toast and got heartburn from the toast and promptly threw up all the toast and what the HELL, man. IT WAS ONLY SOME TOAST. 

So...probably good (for Jason's sake? as the accountable party in this instance?) that this morning's routine OB appointment revealed absolutely no indication that this baby feels like exiting any time soon. Cervix is closed, baby is happy and continuing to leech an alarming amount of body fat directly off my frame as his weight/size goes up and mine goes down and no one really knows why but it's not a big deal, apparently, and I can report that I've managed to hold on to plenty of extra pregnancy weight in my chin. Or chins, as the case may be.

(Oh, and my blood pressure is just fine, since I know pregnancy + headache talk tends to elicit a Scooby-Doo-style ruh-roh most of the time.)

In other words, everything is fine! Except for all of the things that are terrible! 

Anyway. Here! Look! Click here to see some pictures from my maternity photo session. Which will one day make me look back at these last couple weeks and think, "Awwww, that wasn't so bad! Look how peaceful and serene I looked! Kind of glowy and vintage-y? We should totally do that again." 

(And yes, there really is a 35w5d belly under that heap of children. OUCH, YOU TWO. STOP DENTING YOUR BROTHER.)

(Thanks so, so much to Kaileen for taking these...for INSISTING on taking these, really, because without her kicking me in the pants the only photos I would have from this pregnancy would be crappy iPhone shots, and I think we can all agree that hers are much, much prettier.) 

Now if you'll excuse me, this here pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and I have some business to attend to. Important pregnancy-related business.

*looks at carton more closely*

NON-FAT FROZEN YOGURT???? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK KIND OF EVERLOVING BULLSHIT...

*HULKRAGE*

Swing Low Sweet Crazy Person

AMY: Thanks for getting the baby swing down from the attic...

JASON: No problem.

AMY: *under breath* ...three freaking months after I originally asked you to but whatever.

JASON: What?

AMY: Nothing!

AMY: *busies herself with refastening freshly-washed cover to baby swing*

AMY: *tries to attach swing seat to swing frame, makes horrible discovery*

AMY: THE SWING IS MISSING A PART!

JASON: What?

AMY: MISSING! A PART! THIS WON'T ATTACH! THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GO ON THE OTHER THING AND KIND OF...POP? OUT? THOSE THINGS! OR WAS IT A SCREW? EITHER WAY! THERE IS SOME ESSENTIAL MISSING THING!

JASON: *looks* Yeah, you're right. I'll look up in the attic again, I guess.

AMY: Okay.

AMY: *waits*

AMY: ...

AMY: *waits more*

JASON: What? 

AMY: OH MY FUCKING GOD.

(PS. NO BABY YET.)

(PPS. OR WORKING SWING.)