Official Post-Valentine's Day Recap ExtravaganzSQUIRREL!

I had a really nice Valentine's Day, thank you for not asking, but allowing me to pretend that you did. We're all organic and conversational up in this bitch!

For the first time in years, I was thoroughly pleased with my own gift-and-card-related offerings for Jason: 

Geeky Han-and-Leia bracelets from Spiffing Jewelry.

Super-highly-mature card from Wit and Whistle.

Usually I get completely out-gifted by my thoughtful, creative husband while I'm like: Here's a sweater? It's red? I bought you some chocolates but I ated them? 

Not that Jason did too shabbily himself, or anything. But he's an established pro at Valentine's Day -- gifts! flowers! candy! pampering! home-cooked gourmet meals and champagne! -- so I'm usually just happy to not suck too badly at it. 

Since the babysitter works on Tuesdays, we played hooky had a lunch date together at a restaurant nearby, a place we've gone several times with ALL OF THE CHILDREN in tow, and the hostess gave us a suspicious side-eye when she sat us, like "aren't you the ones wot show up with all them kids usually? where's your baby? oh dear God, did you leave him in the car?"

Then we both went to the Valentine's Day party at Noah's school, which thrilled him to no end, because NOW I CAN SHOW YOU OUR MEALWORM FARM, MOMMY. 

OH WOW, BUDDY, THAT'S SO COOL.

(Shudders.)

After that, we came home and basically counted the hours until bedtime, so we could enjoy a fancy grown-up dinner in peace. (And you know, rrrrroooomance.) We were almost home free by 7:30, because everyone was already acting so tired, so I corralled the boys upstairs and oh yeah, that's when the giant fucking squirrel got inside the house and holed up in the living room for awhile.

WAIT WHAT. 

I was rocking Ike to sleep when I heard Jason yelling -- and I mean YELLING -- a string of oh my Gods! and Ceiba! Ceiba! Ceeeeeeiiiiiiiibas!

I could tell he was trying really hard not to let a string of f-bombs loose too (FUHcrap! WHATTHEFUHHHreak!), what with the children still being awake and busy brushing their teeth, and I tried to figure out what in the hell he caught Ceiba doing that would warrant such an outburst -- actively taking a crap on the couch? Climbing in the fridge and helping herself to our creme brulee? Sneaking a cigarette? Doing DRUGS? WHAT?

I was completely stuck in that I Must Remain Hushed And Zen Despite All Hell Apparently Breaking Loose Downstairs spot, since Ike was alllllmost asleep and if I dared raise my voice to find out what was going on, I knew he'd jerk fully awake and be all, "Welp, that took the edge off! Let's party!" for the next five hours. So I kept my mouth shut and assumed that whatever it was, it had to be something Jason could handle. Plus, I still feel like he owes me a little bit for daring to be on a business trip right at the exact moment the oven decided to catch on goddamn fire. 

Jason appeared at the nursery door about 15 minutes later. He looked like he could use a drink or seven.

"We are never," he said quietly, so not to startle the baby, "EVER. Leaving trash out on the back deck again."

My mind flashed back to the morning of the shredded, scattered trash bag. Really? All that was over the dog getting into the trash? There couldn't possibly have been anything grosser in it than all the Disgusting Paper Towels of Horkgate Grossness that I had to clean up, unless, oh God, did Ceiba eat something dangerous? Is she...wait, no.

"I put the trash inside the recycling bin," I protested. It was a small bin, without a lid, but still too high for Ceiba to get into. "How did she get..."

"Not Ceiba," he said. "I picked up the bag and brought it inside so I could take it out front to the curb. And...a squirrel jumped out of it."

Not just any squirrel, apparently, but the biggest, fattest squirrel Jason had ever seen -- easily as big as our dumb little dog -- who had decided to take up permanent residence inside our trash bag. It took a flying leap out of a hole in the bag somewhere in the kitchen and took off into the house, eventually settling behind a bookcase in the living room. Ceiba (being dumb, little) ran after it, even though the thing could have probably bitten her head off, honey-badger style.

While I stayed upstairs, obliviously rocking Ike to dreamland, an epic struggle of Man, Squirrel, Pursedog and Broom had been going on without me. 

"I locked Ceiba in the bathroom and eventually chased it out the door with a broom," he informed me. "So it's gone now."

"Did you take a picture of it?" I asked, while shaking with silent, gasping laughter, as I am both 1) experienced when it comes to harmless yet spastic wildlife trapped in the house, and 2) an asshole.

No, he did not. I know! I'm disappointed too. That would have made it officially the best Valentine's Day ever. But I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it was at least a pretty close second. 

The Five

Shh, shh. Let's not talk about any further unpleasantness. Let's all just cross our fingers and hope that things continue in their current state, which is fine. And dead. As in, the scalp in question is fine, and all the unpleasantness that we are NOT TALKING ABOUT are dead. I think, should this blogging thing not work out, that I may have found my calling as an Obsessive Scalp Comber. I am ruthless and thorough. I am the Nit Whisperer. I am...talking about the thing I JUST SAID I didn't want to talk about anymore. 

Let's change the subject. 

Lookit! Pitchers!

BlogHer Part One But Not Really

God, isn't BlogHer just the worst? First, we all bore our readers with ZOMG I'M GOING TO BLOGHER posts. Then we go to BlogHer and don't post anything because we're so busy and crazy or can't get on the hotel wifi or are basically, just drunk as shit the whole time. 

Then we come home and don't post anything because we're so tired out from BlogHer. Or if we do post anything, it's all, "ZOMG I'M SO TIRED FROM BLOGHER." And then followed by some random crappy photos we took with our phone that don't make any sense because you totally had to be there and stuff.

Ugh. I hate when bloggers do that.

***

This is a photo I took of my roommate taking a photo of the leftover room service cart full of half-eaten breakfast items that we pushed in of Jason Mayo and TwoBusy's room across the hall from ours. Because. I don't know. WE HAD TO.

The morning after Sparklecorn. Still covered in eye makeup, glitter, unicorn tattoos and a vague sense that I embarassed myself and future generations in a wide variety of ways, the least of which was climbing on a table and taking a bite of the four-foot-tall unicorn cake's ass. 

And I have absolutely no explanation for this one, except that it is one of like, 17 different blurry versions that I took. So clearly, whatever is happening here was important at the time.

*** 

So basically, nine-plus weeks of newborn-baby-related sleep deprivation (on top of however many weeks of pregnancy-related sleep deprivation), followed by two nights in a row of partying until 2:30 am local time (AKA 5:30 am your time, you stupid dumbass), all squished together with two cross-country flights in the span of 48 hours, then back home to the non-sleeping-through-the-night baby and minus any naps....carry the one....divide by the square root of the weight of all the swag you abandoned in your hotel room to make room for your electric breast pump...and...

Yeah. I'm pretty beat. I can kinda see through space and time right now. 

***

ALSO!

It fell out on Friday. Jason managed to stall on the tooth fairy thing until I got home so I could do it, which, in retrospect was not all that's cracked up to be, once you c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y slide your arm under the pillow and feel around for this tiny, practically hollow tooth and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove it and then c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y put a ridiculous amount of hard-earned cash in its place...only to suddenly get really, REALLY grossed out by the nub of a tooth you're now holding in your hand that your husband is all, "DON'T THROW IT OUT, WE NEED TO SAVE THAT" and you then look around you at your life and realize that holy shit, there are like, 200 of these stupid things that are going to fall out and require you to touch them and then pay money for the privilege of doing so in your future. 

But still. I was awfully sorry to miss this one. 

(NOTE: Usually, this is the sort of photo I would crop to make sure none of y'all saw the giant bag of trash hanging out in the recyling bin in the back corner there, but since this was taken on Jason's watch I feel okay leaving in there. Even though I have been home since Saturday night and it is, in fact, still there. LAY OFF ME I'M TIRED.)

(NOTE NOTE: Jason took them both for haircuts while I was away, thus ending our summer of ragamuffin-where-is-that-child's-MOTHER-style chic.)

(NOTE NOTE NOTE: Today is our 13th wedding anniversary. Here, sweetie, I got you some kids.)

Happy Happy

One...

Two...

Three...

Happy birthday, Jason! I would say you've done pretty good so far. Excellent life's work, these three. 

So make a wish! But not for sleep. Because...no. 

Swing Low, Sweet Technomuhlogical Chariot

Okay, blah, fine. Birth stories and hospital/breastfeeding drama are all well and good, but AMY! THE SWING! WHAT ABOUT THE SWING, AMY? 

The swing was still in pieces on the day Ike was born, which was also coincidentally the day we discovered that indeed, Ike was easily comforted by swinging/swaying/rocking movements. Jason commented on this and I said NOTHING, though I did shoot him a DRAMATIC PRAIRIE DOG look. He got the point. "I'll fix the swing."

He went up in the attic but alas! The missing connector piece was nowhere to be found. He waited until the next day to confess this to me, via text message from the aisles of Target, where he was contemplating buying a new swing. 

"WAIT WAIT Internet can help! Commenters offered to send part!" I texted back. 

But it was too late. My husband -- who does not generally get too worked up or involved over baby gear* -- had spotted A Swing. The Swing. It rocks! Sways! Bounces! Simulates the ocean waves while offering a wide variety of white-noise options! It's oblong and minimalist and all kinds of SPACE-AGEY.

It's like somebody attached a cradle seat to an iPad and taught it to fry bacon.

Price tag be damned. Common sense could go fuck itself. There was no going back to our beat-up Craigslist cradle swing, JASON HAD SEEN THE MAMAROO.

I have to admit, Ike reeeeeally loves it, particularly the car ride setting, which is his particular flavor of baby-sleep-crack. I've started affectionately calling it Marvin. 

So there you go. We have a swing, and nobody died, and Jason can't ever make fun of me for my overworked PayPal and Etsy accounts again, although he did ask me NOT to order a custom Marvin-matching blanket in a non-clashing green but fine, whatever, I already found the cutest lime-and-brown pacifier clip and HE NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT MATCHING PACIFIER CLIPS.

*I sent Jason an email a few months back with links to four or five different padded playmat options, asking for his opinion about which one seemed best. I never heard back, and testily brought up the topic a couple days later like, HELLO, IMPORTANT PLAYMAT DECISIONS TO BE MADE HERE, and he stared at me for about five minutes, blinking. "I thought that was a joke**," he said.

**A slightly more hormonally unbalanced and/or less mature pregnant woman probably would have burst into tears at this point, shrieking something about how YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL DO YOU? I WOULD NEVER JOKE ABOUT PLAYMATS. But I will have you know that I did not, but simply shrugged and said fine. And then ordered the most expensive option on the list. SO THERE. 

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! 

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.)

The Third-Time-Around Hospital Bag

So. You may be happy to hear that I finally up and packed a damn hospital bag. (You may also be mildly ambivalent, profoundly disinterested, or experiencing nausea and dry mouth. Side effects may vary, please consult your doctor.) Packing the bag, I believe, is the sure-fire way to prevent a repeat of Tuesday's events, and guarantee that absolutely NOTHING of baby-and-labor-related interest happens until June 1st, when we are scheduled to go in and get 'im. 

The first time I packed a hospital bag I used one of those checklists from the Internet. (Many of which, I've noticed, still mention FILM. Like several times. Make sure your camera has FILM. Bring extra FILM. The hospital gift shop will overcharge you for FILM. It's like a glimpse into childbirth circa 1994!)

Anyway, the checklist I consulted was a very, very looooooong checklist, and I ended up hauling a tremendous amount of useless shit with me. And none of it was organized very well, and since we changed birthing venues multiple times during my labor with Noah (an extended stay in triage due to overcrowding, then a birthing suite, then the OR, then recovery, THEN my non-private, exceedingly small room), we ended up needing a hotel-bellhop-style luggage cart to haul all the various loose things we'd pulled out at various points in time but neglected to re-pack. 

By the time we made it to the recovery room, Jason was wheeling around a giant pile of Random Crap, with expensive electronics shoved in tote bags underneath a precariously-perched Boppy while various charger cords dragged on the floor behind him. Once we were in my room I kept finding smashed-up granola bars ("BRING SNACKS FOR YOUR PARTNER") in my nursing bras and rogue tennis balls ("GREAT FOR COUNTERPRESSURE DURING LABOR") in my toiletry bag.

And then! VERY MUCH WORST OF ALL, IN FACT THE WORST THING EVER! In an attempt to streamline and declutter my room later, Jason packed up a bunch of the Random Crap and took it home, but accidentally took the bag containing everything I needed for a shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, deodorant, you name it. We didn't realize it at first, because post-c-section you aren't allowed to shower for quite some time. Which was awful. I felt disgusting. I LOOKED disgusting. Visitors came to see the baby and I couldn't stop thinking they were all staring at the oil slick on my head instead. 

So when I finally got the all-clear that I was allowed to shower, I practically dove in headfirst. Only to discover that Jason had taken my things and I was limited to the hospital-supplied products, which included a horrible combination shampoo/bodywash, a bar of antiseptic hand soap and...nothing else.

Jason had just arrived for the morning and said he didn't feel like turning right around and driving allllll the way home, so just to "deal with it" and he'd bring my stuff back the next day.

To this day, you guys, I am still SO SO SO MAD AT HIM ABOUT THAT.  

We were determined to Do Better the second time. Having the scheduled c-section meant we didn't need to worry about the tennis balls and squeezy stress fidgets or labor-coach snacks (plus I'd come to the realization that hey, Jason could PACK HIS OWN FUCKING BAG, IF HE WANTED ONE, WHY DID I CARE IF HE HAD FUCKING TRAIL MIX AND VENDING MACHINE CHANGE OR NOT, JESUS CHRIST). Plus -- with the exception of the toiletry bag, which I was determined to keep shackled to my ankle this time -- I'd learned that duh, you really don't need ALLLLL your things with you right from the moment you show up. Stuff can stay in the car! Or at home, even! Your partner will go home at some point, especially since you have an existing child, and stuff! 

And lo and behold! THERE ARE ALSO STORES NEARBY. STORES THAT SELL THINGS. 

This freedom -- this terrible, terrible freedom -- to not feel limited to packing One Hospital Bag To Rule Them All, did have its drawbacks. I did, in fact, leave everything in the car except for my purse and a camera bag. This meant we had no bag of our own to put our own clothes in, once I was in a gown and Jason was in scrubs. The hospital gave us plastic drawstring bags...one of which we lost completely between triage and the OR (Jason's clothes. They turned up HOURS later.) and the other of which contained my clothes but somehow was missing one of my shoes (MIA to this day). 

Plus, I hadn't done a very good job of making sure that if there WAS anything I really, really wanted right away, that it was in my purse, and not in the suitcase in the trunk of our car. Because apparently, "riding down the elevator and walking to the parking lot" was the new "I don't feel like driving all the way back home so just 'deal with it'" moment for which I still harbor a great deal of unresolved anger towards my husband. He was too preoccupied with the fact that we'd just had a BABY and look at the BABY and I want to hold the BABY and take pictures of the BABY to understand just how hysterical I was getting because I NEEDED MY HAIRBRUSH AND LIP BALM. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO GET ME A HAIRBRUSH AND SOME LIP BALM.

So! Good God. Hospital bag angst. The most first-worldy problem ever. Other than maybe your cleaning service forgetting to dilute the floor cleaner properly before mopping and LOOK AT ALL THESE OILY RESIDUE FOOTPRINTS WTF NOW I HAVE TO MOP GAH GAH BZZZZTTTT NESTING OVERLOAD.

(I mean, not that that last bit applies to me and my spoiled little life, or anything. Was just a figurative example.) 

So we have one final chance to Get It Right. I would very much like to Get It Right. Or at least not verbally abuse my husband in a drugged-up hormonal haze over some trivial item that I have suddenly decided is the most important thing in the world go get it gogetit GOGETIT.

Here's how the bag is shaping up so far. I think it's at least, a pretty good start, and acceptable should we have another rush-to-the-hospital emergency because OH, I DUNNO, I COULD PEE MYSELF AGAIN, OR MISTAKE GAS FOR CONTRACTIONS, ANY OF THOSE NOT-AT-ALL EMBARRASSING THINGS. 

In My Giant Ass Purse, On My Person At All Times:

Cell phone with all possible needed phone numbers, iPod selections, lifeline to Twitter, Google, blawwwwgs, etc. 

Flip video camera

Kindle (book selections still TBD)

Fancy outlet splitter with USB chargers for all of the above

Headphones

Lip balm, assorted varieties

Hand cream

Nail file (for me or baby, but probably mostly me because my beautiful pregnancy-enriched nails have a history of breaking into stubby, uneven shards within 30 minutes of giving birth)

Hair brush and small variety of hair clips/bands/restraining devices

Oil-absorbing pressed face powder, because I clearly have Priorities

Laptop. I think. Not definitively sure which bag this will get shoved in, but I solemnly swear to not deprive the Internet of a prompt, timely posting with a baby picture and name information, no matter what. 

*shakes fist at sky Scarlett-O'Hara style*

In Small Tote Bag, On Jason's Person At All Times: 

The "real" camera, the big SLR one

Zoom and 50mm lenses

Extra memory card AKA NOT FILM

Extra battery

Charger

Card reader

Room for those plastic drawstring bags of our clothes, provided everyone dresses seasonally appropriate and does not wear exceptionally clompy shoes. 

(Note that Jason has also been informed that IF we are heading to the hospital *in labor* and a VBAC appears to be at all a possibility, it is his responsibility to handle all the Labor Coach supplies -- tennis ball, bathing suit, snacks -- and also I am not reminding him about bringing his toothbrush or a change of clothes or whatever, YOU GO WITHOUT SHIT YOU WANT AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.)

(Wow. I know! I should probably see a professional about this.)

In Small Suitcase, To Be Either Left In Car Trunk Or Hauled With Us, Depending On How I Feel That Day Oh Who Am I Kidding I Will Probably Tether It To My Ankle:

Bathrobe

Slippers

Nursing sleep bras

Lanolin, package of gel Soothies, small travel scissors for cutting said Soothies in half because those suckers are expensive and like, four times the circumference of my actual nipples, HEY-YOOOO. 

Mother's Milk teabags to kickstart boobs into production

Gorgeous embroidered shawl a friend brought me from India to use as an alternative to frumpy bathrobe and/or impromptu nursing cover in case of visitors. (While EXCEEDINGLY VAIN, I'm not particularly shy about breastfeeding, but still don't really want to make like, the husbands of my friends and/or Jason's coworkers or whoever else feel weird, but bringing an full-on classic "nursing cover" to the maternity ward seems kind of excessively fussy.) 

Coming-home outfit for baby. Okay, maybe two outfits. I haven't decided yet. Plus one is a newborn size in case of a 7-pound Ezra Variety of Baby, and one is 0-3 months in case of a 10-pound Noah Variety.

Soothies pacifers, because the ones the hospital offers are crappy and never work to stop the screaming and/or endless self-soothing on Mama's increasingly battle-scarred boobs.

Toiletries, including dry/powdered shampoo, actual shampoo and conditioner, body soap, razor, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, makeup bag, all packed directly INTO the suitcase's interior pockets so there will be NO REMOVING ANY OF IT FROM THE ROOM WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Outfit for me to wear home, UNLESS I happen to be wearing my black dress from Old Navy when we arrive at the hospital, because then I will just wear that home as well because it's my best option right now because it fits and it's black and slimming (SHUT UP) and comfy and every time I've tried to wear pants home from the hospital I've ended up kind of maybe crying over said pants and how they fit and look so FUCK IT, I'M WEARING A MUUMUU BUT WE'RE ALL CALLING IT A DRESS, OKAY?  

Ample extra space for robbing hospital room blind. Boo-fucking-yah, free diapers and disposable mesh panties for everyone!

In Secondary Shopping Bag, Out In The Car, And I Promise To Be Okay If These Items Are Not Within My Possession Within An Hour Of Giving Birth Or Maybe Even Two But Three Is Probably Pushing It OH MY GOD GO GET THE BAG JASON:

Nursing pillow. I gave away my Boppy but that's fine since I never particularly loved the thing, so this time I bought one by Balboa Baby. I bought it 100% based on the fact that the cover was cute. I know absolutely nothing else about it. It may in fact turn out to be the worst nursing pillow in the history of the world, but dammit, it's cute. I AM EDUCATED CONSUMER WHO MAKES EDUCATED CHOICES. 

Regular pillow.

Two full-sized towels, because the hospital only provides tiny little handtowels, which, COME ON, I need like 17 of those to properly dry off after a shower. (Why yes, I AM obsessed with the postpartum showering process a little bit). Both towels are old and disposable in case of horror-movie-like grossness* but still totally Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy approved.

Big Brother gifts for when Noah and Ezra arrive to completely ignore the new baby while we try in vain to take Incredibly Preshus Life-Affirming Photographs.

DVDs, because the hospital rooms do have DVD players but last time ours was missing the remote and didn't really have working external buttons that made any sense, so the DVDs we brought mostly just sat there taunting me. Except for Iron Man, which Jason managed to get to play at fucking 11 pm the first night while I was trying to sleep and was the reason I suggested that hey, I know we have a private room this time and all but I think it might still be better if you don't stay over again. Go be with Noah or something. I also fucking hate Iron Man to this day as well.

(Really, you do NOT want me to develop a grudge against you at any point during the immediate days postpartum. I will take it to my GRAVE.)  

*Okay, this might very well launch us into another whole blog entry here, or cause a significant portion of the reading audience to head for the fucking hills**, but OMG. The Grossness. The Bloooooood. I am guessing -- like everything -- the whole lochia thing varies from person to person, but I am a bleeeeeeder. Some of this probably has to do with having c-sections -- you are confined to bed with a catheter for quite some time afterwards, so I guess maybe it all just...pools and stores up more than for someone who is allowed to get up and out of bed right away? Because the first time I get up to use the bathroom and get cleaned up, it really, seriously is like a slasher film set in an abattoir. For this reason, I DO NOT pack my own nightgowns or underwear or maxipads or any of that sort of thing. I am a believer in the hospital-supplied Giant Mesh Disposable Panties and Two-Foot-Long Rectangular Pads. If my (cheap, cheap) bathrobe and slippers survive the stay, I consider that an unexpected bonus. 

**I'M JUST TRYING TO BE SERVICEY HERE! For anyone else packing a hospital bag! I was caught so unprepared the first time! Like this:

OH MY GOD, COMBINATION SHAMPOO AND BODYWASH?!?! WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!?! THE HORROR, THE HORROR!!

Just In Case There Was Any Doubt

Ezra's middle name is Harrington. It was his now-late great-grandmother's last name, and we chose it in her honor. Noah's middle name comes from my side of the family -- Corbin, the Latin version of Corbett. Though we found out this weekend at the memorial service that the actual last name Corbin appears a few branches up on the Harrington family tree as well. Huh.

We also discovered that while Ezra got the name, Noah got the genes. 

(Professional photos [I am sure you can tell which ones those are] by Kaileen Galhouse, Galhouse Photography)

I Really Hate Coming Up With Titles Some Days. (There. Done!)

And two days later...it's still a boy!

What? Not quite as exciting anymore? Damn these follow-up posts. They're such a letdown.

I spent all day yesterday in rapid reverse-gear, solely fixated on my older existing-model child and visiting our kindergarten options for next year. A variety of special education flavors and regular strength. I started off the day with a pre-existing belief in one of them, only to end up with that belief shaken and stirred and coming home to wail that I DON'T LIKE ANY OF THEM, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. One option is too this and the other is too that. 

I still haven't come to any great revelations about the day and the experiences and what I saw, other than to randomly decide that I think I'm going to sign Noah up for a karate class. That will solve...none of the big issues at hand, but it's a DECISION. About SOMETHING. Everybody golf clap. DO IT. 

Oh, and I bought like, five boxes of chocolate truffles. They were on sale, because they're tied up with Christmas ribbons, and they're practically PRESCRIPTION truffles. Because once again, I showed up at my OB appointment having gained zero pounds. The baby is growing just fine -- super more than fine, if the ultrasound measurements are any indication. His (HIS!) size puts him (HIM!!) about a week and a half ahead of his gestational age. So that's good! He's big and breech. Fantastic. Meanwhile, I can't even keep pre-pregnancy jeans up over my newly bony ass because the baby is getting EVERYTHING while I'm just trying to stay upright in the face of the never-ending preschool germ onslaught. 

But this simply means 1) my pregnancy cravings have been booted to the very top of the priority list, so all I have to do is MENTION that hey, Indian food sounds kinda good to me right now, and BAM, I am stuffing my face with all the Indian food I want, and if I want Chipotle for dessert, my husband is like, legally required to not judge me, plus 2) truffles, and 3) milkshakes. 

In fact, right after the ultrasound, Jason and I went out for breakfast (sausage, egg and cheese sandwich with a full-fat grande Cafe Mocha) and then hit the grocery story to pick out a celebratory dinner (filet mignon, creamed spinach). He's getting kind of worried about how his cholesterol is going to survive this pregnancy, but I'm sorry, honey, it's OUR BABY. SACRIFICES ARE REQUIRED. 

Over breakfast, we agreed that despite having the baby's name about 99% decided for sure, we'll keep it a secret anyway. You know, in case we change our minds or a serial killer with that very name suddenly starts dominating the newspapers for the next four months or so, and besides, we're still currently going back and forth on a middle name.

AND there's the little detail that the name we love and really want is technically a nickname for another name that we're just so-so about. It's a nice name, but not one I really see us ever using. So do we give him the full name, just so he has the option of using something less casual-sounding someday (and weirdly, it's a MUCH easier name to pair middle names with), or just skip the whole "formal name we never actually intend to use that just complicates the birth announcements and school forms" thing and just...name him what we plan to actually call him. 

This is all bothering me much more than Jason. AS USUAL. This was evidenced by him just casually dropping the name out loud while talking to him mother no more than an hour after we agreed to keep it to ourselves. And of course his mom HAAAAAAAAAATES it and thought he was JOKING, like you can't honestly be SERIOUS, you're not really going to CALL HIM THAT. Which wigged me out even MORE, because I thought the conversation would mean Jason would say we had to start ALL OVER, but then he hung up the phone and was like, "Uh, you realize the simple fact that my mother hates it just makes me like the name even more. You should probably get used to this concept at some point, what with having three boys who are going to become teenagers and adults someday."

I told him he was a jerk who should respect his poor, long-suffering mother's opinion more. Except this time, because she's like, totally wrong and stuff. 

Anyway! One last order of business and I'll free you from this meandering mess of barely-connected ramblings: We launched a fun sister site to Mamapop this week, thus expanding that haphazard empire beyond TV/movies/gossip and into the "LIFESTYLE" realm of blogging, which I think mostly just means "interesting shopping/beauty/health/techie/nerd crap that is not about TV/movies/gossip but we still really want to talk about." I dunno. I didn't read that far down the memo. All I know is, IT'S FUN AND I LIKE IT. Also, it's called Moxiebird, and I hope you'll check it out.