February In Utah

I Am The Moby Dick to Your Ahab. Or I Am Ahab and I Want Your Moby Dick

Whoa. That's a lot of induction talk there. Who knew it was such a debatable thing? I guess everyone but me.

This pregnancy thing is rife with debate, ain't it? Every damn thing you do has, like, a billion studies to back up why you should or shouldn't be doing that thing. Wine is okay, wine will kill your baby! Oh my God, OH MY GOD is that deli meat you're eating?! And the tuna! Full of mercury you murdering motherfucker! Are you dying your hair? Just know that your son will probably have two heads all because you wanted to be blonde, YOU SELFISH BITCH ASS BITCH.

Still, I appreciate your comments, I really do. Serge read them all, like, ten times and then we talked and talked and, well, here is the latest on the whole question of whether to induce. Yes, of course you have to click over to Babble. That's how mama's paying for this baby, yo!

But listen, I wanted to talk about something else over here. And yes, it has to do with pregnancy so I'm sorry. I'M SORRY! Hopefully the little fella will be out within the week and you won't have to hear about vagina-related things anymore. But for now? THERE IS A SEVEN POUND HUMAN IN MY BODY AND HE NEEDS TO COME OUT SO IT IS ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT.

Ahem. Moving on: Sex during pregnancy.

There are these women, wanton husband-stealers like Angelina Jolie, who wax poetic about how horny they were during pregnancy and I'm like WHAT? Because all I could do in the first trimester was puke my guts out and who the hell feels like showcasing their stretched, naked ass during the third trimester?

And yet. People-in-the-know say that sex helps induce labor. Can you vouch for these people-in-the-know? What do you know? So, after reading up on this sex induces labor thing I told Serge he might have to harpoon this whale - if you know what I'm saying - and after he recovered from the shock of me inviting him to actually touch my body he mimed a penis hitting a baby in the head. Of course that's just silly but what if I have a contraction during the deed? Because seriously, I'm having these Braxton Hicks bastards every five minutes. I keep picturing my vagina snapping shut like those man-eating plants from The Little Shop of Horrors.

Also, my vagina has been out of use for quite some time now and I told Serge that maybe he needed to dust her off and clear a path for his son.

I don't think that helped convince him.

So maybe, just maybe I should have some Marvin Gaye at the ready for when he arrives home from work... Who can resist Marvin Gaye? And wine, of course. Lots and lots of wine. For him, not me, you judgmental bastards.

I mean, really. Who wouldn't want to get with this???

Update

Had myself a bit of a breakdown yesterday. I probably shouldn't tell you why, you'll just think I'm an asshole. But you probably already think that anyway, so fuck it.

Right before my doctor appointment I went to get my hair colored one last time. Yes, I think it's safe. But if you want to give me shit about it you can leave a comment here.

I colored my hair because I'm going gray! And also because I won't have time to go for the next few months. I asked her to cover my roots and take it a shade lighter, with lots of white-blonde highlights around my face.

It's not as bad as this scenario, but I feel like it should've processed a bit more because I'm seeing more orange than I'd like to. I do feel a bit like Tony The Tiger. Except my hair? It is not grrrrrreat. Also? I may or may not have screamed at a shocked Serge that with my big, fat potato head and stupid hair I look like fucking Vince Neil now. He did the right thing, quietly leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

After getting my hair did I raced over to my doctor appointment, hoping that he'd tell me KID B's head was hanging out my vagina and I should head to the hospital, like, NOW.

He didn't say that.

As for what he did say: It's what I'm babbling about today. And I want to know what you think. I really do. But keep my delicate condition in mind and also that I cried a lot yesterday. Because I am a big, stupid, Vince Neil-head, crybaby assface.

Not Nesting! Getting Shit Ready For When The Kid Comes

I'm headed to the doctor in a few hours. Maybe, when he's feeling up my cervix he'll say I'm good to go. Maybe my water will break on his face. At this point, either option is equally appealing.

Yesterday Serge started hanging up stuff in KID B’s room. A painting, a map, but not the letters spelling out his name because my mom is coming to watch Violet while my cervix gets molested by my doctor and we aren’t even telling her the name until the little dude gets here.

Okay, okay. I will tell you one of the top five names we decided NOT to name him.

It's what I'm babbling about today. And you can check out the results of Serge's hard work. But it's not nesting, he says! It's just getting shit ready for when The Kid comes.

More Before Eight Than Most Folks Do All Day

Yesterday was my first day of maternity leave.  I took a week off in advance of my due date because I wanted to sit around on the couch and watch Teen Mom and I Used To Be Fat get ready for the baby. 

So I'm all pumped up to spend some quality time with Violet.  I have her bathed and dressed by nine and sit her in front of a DVD in her bedroom so I can shower.  Yes, I lock her in her room with a DVD but it's the only way I can get a shower in.  Besides, it's not like I set her up to watch porn.  It's just Showgirls.  What?  It's a cult hit!  And Elizabeth Berkley was also in Saved By The Bell which is totally kid appropriate. 

I've got her watching the DVD and I'm just about to head in to my bathroom with the baby monitor when I notice the kitchen counters need a quick swiping.  Damn Serge and all his coffee making in the morning.  What in God's name does he do there?  There's sugar all over the damn place, coffee splattered across the counter.  It's like he asks Violet to freshen up his cup or something.

So I'm wiping the counters and I hear a thud followed by silence.  I'm to the point where I don't investigate every single thud.  Violet has been known to lie in bed and kick at her walls for, well, for kicks.  But there's something ominous about this particular thud.  I pause and cock my ear toward her bedroom and then I hear the cry.  Parents know the cry.  The There-Is-Something-Very-Wrong cry.

I run into the bedroom and she's just standing there, not crying anymore.  Then she turns toward me and I realize she seems to be in shock and is taking that big breath before the real crying begins.  As she does that blood starts dripping out of her mouth.   A lot of blood.  Like, movie blood.  It's start splattering her little pink shirt in horrifically bright drops.

I fucking freak, y'all.  Fuh-reak.

She's never been hurt before.  Sure she bumped her head in the night and got kind of a black eye.  And yes, she's faceplanted a time or two... but nothing serious.  For a few seconds we both stand there staring at each other, eyes wide, mouths gaping, both of us about to launch into hardcore crying fits. 

She beats me to the punch and begins wailing.   No, screaming.

I get a hold of myself and swoop her up and run for a towel.  I hold it over her mouth and jitterbug around the room like a crazed monkey, not really knowing what to do next.  I mean, I need to assess the damage, I know I need to assess the damage but Oh My God what if she's knocked a tooth out?  What if she's bitten off her tongue? 

All this races through my brain for what feels like a ridiculously extended period of time but is really, maybe ten seconds or so.  I pull the bloody towel away from her mouth, fully expecting to see little chiclet teeth come away with it, but everything appears to be okay.  Aside from a rapidly ballooning lip. 

Further investigation reveals that she likely bit down on her bottom lip really hard.  It's got a couple teeth prints in it and it's already the size of Texas. 

I did what any good parent would do, I turn on cartoons to distract her from the injury.  Then I slip an ice cube in a towel and let her suck on it while I hold her and bawl.  She's fine, I'm bawling and yelling at myself.  Stupid me... Trying to shower.  Big dumb mom, leaving her in her room with a chair that of course she's going to stand on. 

Finally, I get over myself and call Serge who is unusually calm about the whole thing considering he's the one who taped foam around the fireplace "just in case."

Later, while holding Violet, a violent coughing fit strikes.  Like, you know when you aren't even eating anything, you just, like, swallow your spit wrong or something?  It's one of those.  So I'm holding my injured baby and start coughing but every time I cough, pee comes out because I have another seven pound child relaxing on my bladder.  I sit Violet on the couch, all while cough/peeing and hobble down the hall for the bathroom:

COUGH/PEE!  COUGH-COUGH-COUGH/PEE-PEE-PEE.  COUGH/PEE!  COUGH-PEE/COUGH-PEE/COUGH-PEE.

So there's that.  Pissed myself and let my kid chew through her lip and nearly bite off her tongue an hour after waking.  I do more before eight than most folks do all day.  Helluva first day of maternity leave...  helluva day.