Look What I Made!

Now, I don't like to read about other people's baby stories.  People seem to love to blog about that.  However, Ima tell you mine because it was short (nay, RAPID) and to the point and that was part of the problem.  Although, on this side of things it doesn't necessarily seem like a problem, however the brain does have a way of erasing ones memory... that's why some people have more than one kid, I suppose.

All of my little people have been one week late, except for Coop.  Being my first, it was a blessing that my water just broke three weeks early with him and I didn't have to wonder exactly when to go to the hospital. 

I decided to lay down and take a cat nap 5 days before my due date and coincidentally, on my younger sister's birthday, when I felt a... pang.  Ten minutes later... same thing.  Nine or so minutes later... same thing.  That's when I got on the phone and told the Hubs, "Hey.  Be on time today."  This was somewhere in the neighborhood of 1:00pm.  Hubs gets off around 1:30.  I figured I had plenty of time IF this was "it", but hey, why be the only one miserable??  I had probably only enough time to dial the phone and have a little convo when, hey...  we're at the eight minute mark.  I called right back and told the Hubs, "naw.  let's just come home."  (You have to be on top of things like this with the Hubs...  he can talk to ANYONE.  I mean ANYONE. And if I didn't stay on top of it, five hours could go by and he may still be chatting someone up or mosey-ing on home.  Yes, even when I'm in labor.)

I decided to hop in the shower all "I'm experienced and have plenty of time" like.  Ima shave my legs!  Wash my hair!  Chill for a while!  It was when I began leaning all over the shower wall that I thought, "hmmm... lets cut this one short."  I drug myself out and checked my contractions app...  seven minutes apart?  oh.  fun.

2:30 rolls around and the Hubs strolls in.  There's no Dick Van Dyke-fall-over-the-ottoman for him or forget mama and pedal-to-the-metal to the hospital like you see on TV.  No, I had to poke and prod him on along and convince the house, "no.  for serious.  I need to GO".  I am just very glad I decided to leave when the contractions were five minutes apart the very first time and not wait an hour like suggested. 

The car ride was just ridiculous.  As I watched my little contraction app, I got a little more nervous with every mile.  They were coming closer and closer together.  At one point, through a voice much like Reagan's in The Exorcist... I requested a Pearl Jam CD in the stereo.  I just thought, "concentrate on every word like the contractions don't exist."  It seemed to work... for a while... then I had to get out of the car... that is just a ridiculous feat for someone in labor.  Partly because I am hella stubborn and partly because I needed someone to lean on, the Hubs and I parked (instead of dropping me off) and made the long trek to labor and delivery.  This was 3:30pm.  I said to the Hubs, (Reagan voice):  "I won't be getting an epidural today."  He says, of course, "Aw, sure you will, honey."

I must have looked pretty damn amazing because I was offered a wheel chair upon entering the hospital.  No paperwork, no nothing... get that woman out of here!  Upstairs, the triage nurse decides some of my blood needs to be taken to the lab... seems my blood pressure goes up with each contraction (pray tell, why would it not?!  Its a nerve wracking experience.) 

I will seal the deal here and you will know my obsession with Eddie Vedder.  Once in my room, I decided screaming (or rather, guttural weird noises) were wasting my time and energy.  I went inside myself and imagined Mr. Vedder throwing me my own personal concert.  I also used the mantra, "let your uterus do the work."... whatever works right?  I just figured I wouldn't want to be embarrassed in front of Eddie, so I must maintain composure!  Later the Hubs told me it was somewhere around here I worried him because I went absolutely silent.  Closer to "Time" I moved my inner self to a beach complete with margaritas and Bud Light, focused on the deserted island off in the distance... figuring I couldn't maintain enough composure in front of my imaginary Eddie Vedder. 

Somewhere within my imaginary beach-happy-hour... look who shows up... well... it's the anesthesiologist.  Labs FINALLY came back and everything was fine.  (duh.)  It felt like forever, but I guess in reality (not on my Eddie Vedder Beach) it was really not that long.  I sat up to receive the great miracle that is an epidural and BAM.  My water broke.  Confused as to how the hell I would have someone plunge something into my spine without writhing in pain because of contractions, I was doubly confused as to how it would help in time anyway.  I considered asking the nurse, "Will it hurt even more? (during delivery)" if I didn't have the epidural, but only imagined her saying, "Fuck yeah, its gonna hurt." and maintained my silence.  I only shook my head when she asked me if I still wanted the epidural. 

It was a pretty amazing little circle, filled with women (and the Hubs...) like some sort of Red Tent or something.  They let me sit up and call the shots pretty much.  (Why the hell would anyone assume it's best to lay down while trying to push a bowling ball out of your hootenanny, I'll never know.)  The room was full of cheering and I felt like I could actually participate fully (but, fuck yeah... it hurt.)  I will say that the worst part is the last few minutes.  Even I wasn't sure what I had experienced until later when my midwife asked me, "How'd ya like that 'ring of fire'?"  Oh.  Dear.  God.  But ya know what?  The instant... and I mean the INSTANT it was all over, I felt like a million bucks.  Like, pack-my-bags-why-can't-we-all-just-go-home million bucks.  It was amazing.  And the little guy was bright eyed and bushy tailed like I have seen no other because he hadn't been medicated either.  Absolutely amazing.

I would HIGHLY recommend this whole natural thing to anyone.  Only... I wouldn't study it up too much before hand.  Something like this could scare the hell out of a person if it isn't just forced upon them...  worked for me anyway... 

So there it is.  Felt a pang around 1pm.  Left for the hospital around 3pm.  Had a baby boy by 5:30pm.  It was nutso.  But here he is: 

Mr. Finn Scott

Welcome to our crazy little family.  Glad to have ya.





...and thank you, Eddie Vedder. 

Loose End, Loose End. Cut! Cut!

Oh, Monday.  Hello.  There are some days that are just so full, I don't know where to start.  There's just so much crap going on lately and so much to be accomplished that I just almost can't see the forest for the trees.  It's like my big messy garage... there's so much shit in there, I throw up my arms and say, "Eh.  Later."

I thought I'd tie up some loose ends for you.  I mean, because I know you are on the edge of your seat about some things. 

The Damn Weighted Blanket:  not complete.  Well, not started.  Oops.  Could we still use one?  Mayhaps.  Max still wakes up in the middle of the night.  I wouldn't say as often though.  ...and I got such weird advice from everyone.  It's hard to decide where to start... like, SEVERAL people suggested I use BEANS for the weight.  As in, yum-yum-these-beans-are-tasty beans.  Wha???  What happens when he pees the bed?  Can't wash beans.  The Hubs stands by his idea to have my mom crochet washers into a blanket.  Chain-mail?  Sounds painful.  The little booger seems to be doing okay lately.  Back in MAY the school system said THEY would call ME for more specific testing.  Have I heard from them?  Hell-to-the-no.  Thank you for confirming my suspicions, school system.  On a lighter note... due to the sensory issues (I believe), Maximus never wanted to use a cup.  It seemed to cause anxiety over potential spills.  Over the weekend he just decided, "Ima do this."

Now this doesn't mean when it spills he doesn't go ape-shit-crazy.  Screaming, crying and asking one million times (no, for serious), "water-spill???  clean up???" in his Cookie Monster voice.  But at least he tries again and that is an improvement.

Panties?:  I continue to get multiple hits everyday because I have uttered the word 'panties' on this blog.  It was pretty hilarious at first and now slightly annoying.  Here's a non-traditional blogging tip:  use the words fucking, boobs or panties to up your stats, if you're into that sort of thing.  The world is a dirty, dirty place.

Eddie Vedder:  still hasn't called.  What is WRONG with that guy??  sigh.

Rosacea:  it's back bitches.  Two months (?!) ago the dermatologist put me on antibiotics.  Do you know what long-term antibiotics do to a gal?  A pregnant gal???  We won't go there, but I'm done.  If stress is my trigger, it ain't going anywhere.  I'll smear on the cream, think happy thoughts and invest in some plaster-like makeup.  (PS... I hate you, rosacea.)

Anyhoo... we had a pretty shiz-nit weekend.  Here's the pics.

 

 Well, Ima go kick this Monday's ass.

 Here's to you and me having one great get-it-done week.

To My Dearest Eddie Vedder

To My Dearest Eddie Vedder,

I am just not sure how you could set up a concert in Atlanta without consulting me first.  Wait, that's rude.  Just, why didn't you call??  I would have told you I have a baby due on September 19th and that I am simply not able to make it.  I am sure you would have obliged and set up an even better date.

Here is how my brain works (and apparently my husband's...).  The Hubs hears Pearl Jam is coming September 21st (with Foo Fighters?!  ...sigh.)  He immediately calls because I guess he loves to hear information before me.  He drones on and on, rubs it in, about how the radio stations are blowing up about it.  How huge it's going to be.  How amazing.  ...And backstage passes are available???  Although I would probably just stare at you and stutter...  Anyway, my brain immediately starts rolling...  could I induce?  my babies always come a week late, why wouldn't this one??  could I pop a baby out and run??  wait!, there was that time I went to Music Midtown on crutches!... would this be so different???  But these thoughts were the weird split-second kind... quick and... well, dumb.  This may be God's sick sense of humor at work again... after all, the family's savings IS in jeopardy when meeting you could be involved.  (For $1000... what the what??)

So I make coffee this morning and throw in the Ten album in a ritualistic sort of manner.  Those were the days.  Forceful-grown-up-hood is okay, right?  Teaches responsibility?  I'll make a casserole for a sick friend today.  Get my son's occupational therapy done.  Make sure the house sparkles.  But I'll have you know...  it all sounds homely, but not only am I rockin this shit, I am OWNING this shit.  Is there not a way to mix this housewife self with my easy breezy former self?

So, in my daydreams, very much like a cheesy afternoon Lifetime flick... my friends contact you and tell you what a fan I am.  You, being the lovely person you are visit me in the hospital.  You spout some amazing words of wisdom, "Hey, keep on rocking in the free world..." And I name my fifth kid Vedder.  It's a lovely story, right?

Love,

At most admiring, a most pregnant, a most conflicted personality... fan.

Sing to Me, Eddie.

The moment was like some bright beacon calling from a distant shore.  Angels sang.  Planets aligned.  Dogs and cats played peacefully together.  Eddie Vedder could be heard whispering from a far corner, "Damn, you are Awesome." (with some guttural "yeeeeeeeeeeeah...")

"Mom.  If 4+4 = 8 and 8-4 = 4, then all those numbers are related."

Maybe the average teacher is used to hearing epiphanies like this one, but me, just some regular ol' person...  It's still magic.  You can preach and preach, but until they figure it out for themselves, it's really all just talk.   If I hadn't decided to home school, I would have given these moments to someone else.  That wasn't one of our original reasons for home schooling, but it's become one of the biggest.  The first time I experienced "a moment" was last year when Coop, after working on phonics for several weeks, uttered, "lllll....ah....guh.... LOG!" and from there we were off and reading.  I'm not going to lie, on top of having a comfortable environment for the children to learn and stretch out in... I really get off on the fact I taught someone to read.

I don't mean to make it all sound easy though.  Most days are tough.  Crazy tough.  And if you're smart, you don't have 3 other kids under the age of 3 getting into stuff while the 6 year old is schoolin'.  But when the epiphanies do come sporadically and far between, every tough day is just so worth it.