The Land of Milk and Poo

Why It's Probably Good I'm Done Working Soon

I had an Important Meeting last week and was in my office getting ready. I still had to run to the bathroom, gather my stuff, and lug it to the car parked approximately half a mile from my office (I'm exaggerating, but at this point EVERYTHING feels like half a mile, even the bathroom, and I'm nowhere near cooked yet). I sneezed.

Just a normal, innocuous, l'il sneeze. No biggie.

Except I was wearing a skirt and nice suede boots.

And bad underwear--we're talking it had holes in it (yeah, we're at that point). Three holes. Ahermph. *Ducks head in shame*

And that normal, innocuous, l'il sneeze----weeeellllll, errrrrrrrrrmmmmm, I peed all over myself during that sneeze.

All over my suede boots, the floor of my office, the front of my skirt. Pee splashed everywhere. We aren't talking your I-laughed-so-hard-I-squirted-a-bit-o'-pee, we are talking I stood there, hands up, mouth agape, staring at my gushy incontinent self with a mix of shock and horror.

Then I waddled to the bathroom (yes, a half mile away) trying not to spread the pee (although I'm not sure how one does that) and cleaned my self up.

And that is why I am glad I am done with work soon. That and the fact that my ankles are swollen to the size of a small child's head. Perhaps the baby has dropped already?

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In other news, MP is becoming more hysterical daily. Here are some of her newest gems:

IN SUPERMARKET, MP HAS JUST FINISHED COOKIE TREAT AFTER PROMISING TO BE GOOD GIRL

Me: MP, you aren't being a good girl. Mama's going to take that cookie away.

MP: (Looking confused) But Mama, I finished the cookie already!

Me: I'm going to go in there (tickles belly) and get it!

MP: No Mama. (Completely serious) You won't fit in there!

IN KITCHEN, PUTTING AWAY DISHES, MP IS TALKING A MILE A MINUTE

Me: Wow, you sure are Ms. Chatterbox today.

MP: NO Mama! I miss YOU today! (She runs over and hugs my legs. Ach, my melty heart.)

MP IS TALKING WITH HER DADA

Dada: Can I bite your belly? Please? Just a little bite?

MP: NO!!!

Dada: What can I bite?

MP: You can bite.....errrmmmmm...my ear. Just a little bite! (offers ear lobe)

Dada: Okay, just a little bite. ("Bites" ear.)

MP: But you can't bite the other ear (indicates other ear, then whispers) Be VERY quiet! There's a baby asleep in there.

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28 weeks (pregnant, not the horror movie). Things still look good. I am huge and exhausted and not sleeping and aching everywhere, but very, very happy.   

Sick Mama + Sick Child + Flooded Basement + No Sleep + Hormones = Good Times, Good Times

Yep, that little equation above just about sums up the past two weeks here.

Sick Mama

First I started feeling notgreat, developed a fever I couldn't shake; the evil thing moved into my ears and my throat and my lungs, spreading its nasty fingers. I was put on Zithromax and an inhaler, since I was having trouble finding comfortable ways to breathe. I googled the inhaler and decided, because I apparently am a doctor and can therefore self-prescribe, not to take it since there's a chance it could cause birth defects. I figured I'd go without comfy breathing in favor of a healthy child. Two weeks later, my right ear is still clogged up and my lungs still make independent noises on their own like little growling, feral creatures.

Sick Child

In the midst of my pitiful week, I gave whatever evil I had to MP, and she began with a bang: a fever topping 104.3. I freaked out, sped to the doctor's, and was told it was a virus. I stayed home two days from work and we both moped and splayed around the house, watching endless shows on Noggin (that Ruby and Max sure are somethin', although MP is at the point that when she sees them, she starts crying "NO RUBY AND MAX! I DON'T WANT RUBY AND MAX!). Poor Random came home to a House of Sick. Hoping MP would recover over the weekend, we soldiered through to Sunday, when

My Basement Flooded

which would have been nearly comical, wading and slopping through the three or so inches of dirty water, woohooooo, donning little yellow rainhats and rainboots in the guise of ladybugs, watching all our firewood float by, except for the fact that all of MP's 12 month to 24 month clothes were packed away, waiting for her sister. And the other smallish fact that all of my non maternity clothes, which includes about ten huge boxes, had just been arranged neatly. And that everything was wet and soggy and mildewy and smelly. My downstairs is, four days later, still a laundromat--clothing stacked high to the bathroom ceiling (piled in the tub), clothing on every chair on the sunporch, clothing hanging from my dining room chairs. Guess when we bought the place we should've noted that the washer and dryer were a foot off the floor on a wooden platform. Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm.

No Sleep

I had just started sleeping again--the first week of being sick I didn't sleep at all, in part because I couldn't breathe and I was coughing non-stop. But by the weekend I was sleeping better. Then the croup started. MP developed a barking, wheezing, terrifying cough that left her breathless, gasping, and crying. It went on all night long. Every hour she'd wake herself up with it, start to cry, the crying would make it worse, and she'd sound like she was hacking up every small internal organ. Her fever began to spike again in the 103 degree territory and Random stayed home with her (we were now at day 5 of her being sick) to take her to the doctor. The doctor once again said virus. Then yesterday the coughing got so bad that MP threw up the contents of her lungs all over me and then, for one horrifyingly frightening second, seemed to not be able to breathe. I flipped out and ran her to the bathroom, where I ran the hot water until our clothes were plastered to us with the steam. That seemed to break the cough, but I still took her to the doctor's again--who this time prescribed steroids should the coughing get worse.

We continued the hot steam treatments and today, thank goodness, she is better. Still coughing, still cranky and irritable, but better. Which brings me to

Hormones

All I'm going to say about this is that when you are sick, your child has been sick for seven days, you have had to miss three days of work (thus making more work for yourself), the house is flooded and a mess, and you are six months pregnant, you are not the nicest or most pleasantest person to be around.

And the Good News Is

I have been excused from jury duty by the nicest commissioner ever, who feels that having young children and being seven months pregnant during jury duty are grounds to be exempt. I found a pair of red peep toe wedges that are going to draw a lot of attention away from the rest of my swelling girth very nicely. Baby is kicking like a champ, we have decided on a name and it is beautiful, and my last cervical check is tomorrow. I have gained 26 pounds at 26 weeks and don't really care anymore. Welch's fruit snacks make your child's poop the most incredible shade of St. Patty's green, and might make you take a full diaper to your pediatrician in a panic, opening the bag no less than four times to show anyone who shows the slightest interest in why, dear lord, you are toting around a poo bag filled with a very dirty diaper. But when you figure out that it's indeed Welch's fruit snacks (the green tongue will give you a clue about this) and not some strange virus, you will sigh with relief and realize that once you experience poop that green, nothing much can surprise you anymore.

25 Weeks Tomorrow

In the week since I have managed to hit 24w (presumably, a "magic number" for pregnancy) it has slowly dawned on me:

I AM NOT READY. I AM NOT READY. I AM SCARED SHITLESS.

The realization that from here on out is the slide down the mountain--that I have 15 weeks left to go if I make it to 40w, and that 15w is approximately how long it takes to move a bag of garbage from the upstairs hallway to the downstairs living room in my house--which is to say, 15w is not that much time at all (well, unless you are a bag of garbage)--all of this whackadoodle realizing going on has me humming the theme song from Jaws under my breath.

My mother told me the other day that the reason she went past 40w with all of her children was because she "lacks a hormone to start labor." And, oh, "you might want to get that checked out...I had to have blood draws at the hospital all the time."

Heh? What was that you said Mom? 

At my last OB appointment I asked my doctor about this. "Yeah, I've heard about it," she said. "We won't let you go past 40w. We don't want you to have a 12 pound baby."

A 12 pound baby is a problem, since currently Cheek Tunnel is only cleared for babies weighing up to 8 pounds, but it's not my biggest worry.

This next part is where things get serious.

My mother has two living children but carried three children past term. The middle child was my sister, a perfectly healthy baby who went past 40w. My mother tells it like this: she woke up one morning after her due date knowing it was time, feeling "weird, sick." She went to the hospital and some kind of quasi-labor started. The nurses nursed her along, and once the labor started, it really took off (she warns me about this, too: It takes a while to start...but once it does, watch out!). Her doctor wasn't available, so they gave her a spinal. (Knowing very little about medicines given while in labor, as I haven't gotten to that part yet in my WHAT TO EXPECT book, I don't know the difference between a spinal and an epidural, or if they are the same thing, or what). The spinal, my mom says, numbed her completely and she couldn't push. The doctor took his time getting to the hospital. Finally the baby was born, but she had the cord wrapped around her neck-- and had for a while. Somehow. And she had swallowed some of her own waste, too. She was blue. She failed the test they give to babies. She died a few days later. My sister, my only sister, gone because of a doctor's mistakes.

My mother tells me that nowadays she could sue, but that it didn't really occur to them back then--they were too busy with grief to sue. She has opened up about this painful time more in the past few months than she has my entire life. While I am finding these moments strangely comforting, as I know so little about my sister and her brief life, and as I could never find a way to ask about her without thinking I would only hurt my parents, it's hard not to imagine this happening to me, to Rocky, too. I've asked about my sister before only to be told not to dwell on it--after all, if she had survived, my brother would not be here. That has always stopped me cold.  And now that I am finally hearing her entire story, it's keeping me up as I simultaneously worry about pre-term labor (courtesy of Stumpy, AKA The Little Cervix That Could), umbilical cords, and late labor punctuated by a silent delivery. This is, of course, 95% Pregnant Worry Normal Brain, and, as everyone tells me, they wouldn't let this happen today, but it makes my decision to have any kind of medication that dulls the slightest cramp a bit of an emotional dilemma (yeah--if you have any thoughts on epidural versus no epidural, I'd love to hear them. My mother is surprised I would go for an epidural, and now that I know what happened to her, I'm not positive I want one, but I can be a pain wuss).

Stumpy the Cervix is holding steady at slightly below normal, but I am still having biweekly ultrasounds. My doctor tells me that she will induce me at 37w if I am dilated. I am perfectly fine with that. But 37w is a mere, teensy, wee little 12 weeks away, which is just enough time for me to... paint the nursery, set up the furniture, buy, oh, EVERYTHING I need (which is, oh, EVERYTHING), get work squared away, mentally prepare myself for motherhood X 2, and throw up a few hundred trillion times from fear. If I start, ermmm, right this second. Like, two words ago. As in, get off my gained-24-lbs-at-25-weeks ass and do something besides watch that damn Matt Damon video again. Because despite the fact that I am sliding down the other side of pregnancy mountain, my heels want to dig in and suspend things right here for a bit, where I don't really need to think about much and where worry about what could happen remains, simply, about what could happen.