*Happy Holidays from The Suburban Princess Diaries.*
Remember when I got mail robbed?
Well, today I found an unexpected surprise waiting for me in my mailbox.
E.P.T. sent me another keepsake gift. Wrapped in plastic.
I opened the package and found this note inside:
Which only leads me to one conclusion.
I was not the only victim. Other people were mail robbed too.
More disturbingly, it probably means that there is not just one mail thief out there.
There may actually be an entire ring of pee-stick pouch bandits.
Seriously, who are these freaks?
That wasn’t the only thing that bothered me.
The makers of the Error Proof Test have made an error.
They clearly don’t understand the difference between the words patience and patients.
I am not a doctor, so I have no patients for them to appreciate.
It’s a little silly, but because of my journalism background, I have no patience for the misuse of words.
I also get upset by bad grammar, spelling and punctuation.
Everyone has their pet peeves.
Apology letter aside, there is a happy ending here.
I did get my purple pee-stick pouch after all.
Merry Christmas to me.
The past week and a half has been nothing but a total disaster.
Excuse me while I take a moment to bitch about it.
Last Monday, about an hour after I had dropped Kamryn off at preschool (the nice one, not the gangsta one) I got a phone call from his teacher asking if I could please come pick him up.
The poor kid had pink eye.
And that’s when the shitstorm began.
That same morning, as I was leaving the doctor’s office with a script for eye drops, I discovered a small, but nonetheless still annoying dent on the back bumper of our barely year-old van.
A dent that, while small, had actually cracked the paint.
Which means that some asshole decided to damage my vehicle and not bother to leave a note. Jerkwad.
A few days later, Kamryn’s pink eye started to get better, just in time for his other eye to become infected.
The day after that, Bronx caught it in both eyes.
Then the weekend came, and both the boys and myself ended up sick.
Bronx and I have gotten the worst of it.
And I got pink eye. In both eyes.
The past four days have been awful. I can’t keep anything down, I am so congested my head feels like it’s going to explode and I can’t sleep. Even with sleep aids.
I am such a mess.
To make matters worse, Sunday night I ran to the bathroom to throw up and didn’t realize I was still holding my fairly new, still under warranty iPod touch.
When I got to the toilet, I started coughing. The iPod flew out of my hand and directly into the crapper.
By some small stroke of luck, the water was clean when it went in.
I pulled it back out within seconds (even though just sticking my hand in clean toilet water freaks the germaphobe within me out) and I dried it off.
It was still on, but the screen was fuzzy and the colors were starting to do some crazy things, so I shut it off and stuck it in a bag of rice.
I’ve heard of people doing this before, even though I have never heard any solid proof that it actually works.
But here we are, 48 hours later, and I have turned it back on.
And even though there is still some water trapped under the screen, the thing still works. Even the backlight, the touch screen, and the audio.
I think it must be a Christmas miracle.
Although, I don’t want to jinx it, so I’ve shut it back down and stuck it back in the rice.
I’m not booting it up again until the weekend. I figure all the water under the screen should be gone by then.
Oh, and I almost forgot. My best friend found out what she’s having today (she’s due three months after me).
Yep, you guessed it. A girl.
It’s starting to get a little bit annoying.
So, now I have to try to go back to bed to get rid of this beast of a sickness that has befallen me.
Because the kid has preschool tomorrow and I have another PIO injection waiting for me at the doctor’s office.
And, damn it, I can’t even take my beloved Nyquil.
I’m pretty sure the universe hates me right now.
Yesterday was Kamryn’s last day of afternoon preschool through the local high school’s child development program.
It couldn’t have come soon enough.
This was, after all, the same preschool where the infamous biting incident occurred.
The same biting incident that I wasn’t notified of. The one where my three year-old son had to tell me what happened and then I had to confront the teacher.
I swear, if my brother-in-law hadn’t been one of the students involved in teaching the preschoolers in the program, I would have pulled Kamryn out. That day.
And just to clarify, said brother-in-law was not there the day of the biting incident, unfortunately.
The “biter” was kicked out of the program immediately following the incident. Apparently, the child had some sort of behavioral problems that the school had not been made aware of prior to the start of the program.
Little did I know, the “biter” was not the only problem with that place.
Right before the preschool ended, I was informed by my brother-in-law that earlier in the week, a four-year old had come to class with a pocket knife.
Let me remind you that this is at a high school, where I should be worried about what the teenagers are bringing to class.
Not the four-year olds.
One of the high school girls who is in charge of “teaching” the little kids caught the boy taking the knife out of his pocket and she asked her teacher what she should do.
This is that same flaky lady that didn’t have the common sense to tell me my son had been bitten by another kid. So, I wasn’t surprised to hear that she told the girl to tell the little boy to put the knife back in his pocket and not take it out again.
How this woman got a job as an educator is beyond me. Clearly, she’s a moron.
So, I went to the next class with Kamryn and sat in the observation room the entire time. About halfway through, I asked the instructor about the knife incident.
She stared at me in shock for a moment, so I am under the impression that she didn’t notify any of the parents of this incident for a reason. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I am the only parent in the entire class that knows anything about what happened in that classroom for the last nine weeks because I had a spy of sorts hanging out in there for me.
I can only guess that she kept the parents out of the loop because she was afraid that the information might somehow get her into trouble.
I was the only one who got word of the knife incident.
After she got over the initial shock, she started to laugh.
And then she proceeded to tell me her version of what happened, chuckling throughout, like it was a really funny story.
Oddly enough, I don’t find children who are barely out of diapers toting around dangerous weapons to be even remotely humorous.
Especially when they are doing so in the same room as my son.
She explained that the knife was discovered before the class officially started and that she confiscated the contraband, telling the child that pocket knives are not allowed at school.
Call me crazy, but I had a hard time believing her.
Mostly because she hasn’t been very forthcoming in the past.
She even threw in some snide remark about how the next class lesson plan would be about handguns.
Even worse, apparently when the boy was picked up and his mother was informed about the incident, she scolded him and said, “I told you to keep that in your pocket.”
Which means his mother sent him to preschool knowing fully well that he was packing.
I shudder to think what kind of home life that kid has.
Even though Kamryn is done with the program, I am still thinking about writing a letter to the school’s administration because I’m pretty sure that preschool needs a new teacher.
Maybe I should recommend someone who has experience in classrooms turned war-zones.
Maybe Michelle Pfeiffer.
I came across a blog awhile back that was hosting a very interesting Twilight-inspired giveaway.
Forget for a minute the fact that even though I read through all of the books and have seen all the movies, I hate everything that is Twilight.
Glittery vampires with good intentions just don’t do it for me.
But, they must excite someone out there an awful lot, because otherwise this would not exist:Ah, yep. It’s a Twilight Vamp Dildo.
I know. I couldn’t believe it either. That’s why I had to blog about it.
Not only is the thing as white as Casper (a bonus if you’re into fooling around with not just vampires, but ghosts too) it also has the capability to sparkle in the sunlight.
If that isn’t authentic enough, it also can be refrigerated to mimic the temperature of a romantic douchebag without a pulse.
Seriously, how desperate do you have to be? I can’t really wrap my head around the idea that there are people out there (and just for starters, there were over 450 entries in that blog giveaway) who actually love the idea of Edward Cullen so much that they are willing to buy a silicone replica of his undead manhood.
Just so they can get down and dirty with it.
I think that may be taking your dedication as a fan just a bit too far.
The only ones more delusional are the people who are biting, being bitten and drinking blood because they really, really want to be a vampire.
Those freaks exist too. My dad actually met one in a bar once and she showed him the bite marks on her thigh from her boyfriend. Who had “sired” her.
And to think, this whole vampire craze was ignited by a Mormon.
Which is why those angelic vamps don’t dare have sex before marriage.
Screw Team Edward or Team Jacob.
I found a better team to join.
I couldn’t agree more.
*FYI: Back when Blogger was only used by my college instructors to post the class syllabus, I used a completely different platform to host my original blog.
Oh yes, much to my dismay, I have to admit that I am a former myspace blogger.
Thankfully, over the years, things have changed. As fate would have it, myspace pretty much died at the hands of Facebook, so I dropped blogging for awhile and then somehow last year, I ended up here.
The only sad thing about the transition was that I had to leave my old posts behind.
But there are still many posts lingering in blogger purgatory on my old myspace account. Since things with Bronx are still up in the air while we wait to hear back on some more testing and Kamryn is battling the eye drops needed to cure him of pink eye and I am still on edge with preterm labor issues, I figured another old school post was in order.
And wouldn’t you know it, I have one just for the yuletide season.
Here we are...Christmas is back, and it's time for my favorite holiday tradition, MOVIES! What better way to celebrate the season than with some timeless classics that you can sit back and relax with after all the presents have been opened and all the leftovers have been eaten.
Hey it beats freaking sledding...
That stuff sucks because snow always finds a way to creep down into your snow pants and then you end up with hypothermia or some other crappy illness. Merry Elfin' Christmas to that, I'd rather be stuck on the couch with one of Columbia Tri-Star's "home entertainment" products.
So here's getting to the movies. The traditional favorite of mine, of course, is A Christmas Story.
It basically covers the highs and lows of being a kid at Christmas. Ralphie, the kid, wants a Red Rider BB gun from Santa but everyone keeps telling him that he's going to shoot his eye out. Poor Ralphie.
It’s a funny movie.
But there are things about the film’s most classic scenes that I find a tad bit disturbing.
1) Flick's Triple Dog Dare : After a stupid dare, Flick sticks his tongue to a pole in the winter and gets stuck.
How on earth did we go from Saved by the Bell to that?
And speaking of naughty things…
2) The Leg Lamp : Who could forget the soft, warm glow of electric sex in the window?
I sure couldn't.
Hmm...kinda reminds me of how scary fake body parts can be, especially when they are assembled altogether to form a sex slave:
Yes, totally strange but true...it's a doll, a "love" doll. Retail Price: $4,050. And that's for one that's never been “used”. Oh yeah, you read that right. You can actually buy these things secondhand if you can’t afford a brand new one. Either way…ugh, gross.
I still can’t believe that there is a market for that sort of thing.
And I think I just killed my Christmas spirit a little.
He loves to toddle around the house in nothing but a diaper and push all the buttons on the remote control.
And if you ask him what sound a dinosaur makes, he puts his hands in the air and says “RAWR!”
He’s so very small, but he looks like a completely healthy, little baby boy.
Only…he might not be.
We found out that some of the tests that he has undergone since his birthday have come back with abnormalities.
The results have been vague, but paired with his slow growth rate, there could be a real cause for concern at this point.
Actually, there may have been a cause for concern since the day he was born because he was actually measuring behind then too, even for being premature.
It really just may be that we are only finding out about it now.
And nobody can tell us what “it” could even possibly be.
Except that “it” probably isn’t good.
His pediatrician has referred us to several different specialists, but some of them are so booked up and high in demand that they can’t see him for another six months.
I think it’s asking a bit much to make us wait that long for any sort of answers.
I have some other avenues that I need to investigate, but now I am trying my hardest not to become overwhelmed with anxiety.
Because all this time, I knew that he was small. But now I look at him, and I wonder if his little body is more than just a leftover from being premature.
Maybe it’s a symptom of something much, much worse.
I really hope not.
Until then, I’m holding my breath.
Remember that ambiguous gender-determining ultrasound?
Well, I am still convinced that the picture we were sent home with is just a nice shot of the umbilical cord.
I managed to convince everyone else of this too. Even my husband who was absolutely sure we were having a boy until I posted this.
With so much doubt surrounding the accuracy of that first ultrasound, I couldn’t wait until we could have another one done. I just had to know.
And I ended up having to wait eight whole weeks for it.
Thanks to that hospital stay last week, we finally got a second look.
This time around, the ultrasound tech was amazing. She took a long time scanning the baby and went over everything on the screen with me. It was nice, considering most of them stay tight-lipped the whole time. She told me how the baby was lying and even went over measurements. The baby is measuring an entire week ahead (which will help if there is an early delivery) and the baby’s head is actually measuring two weeks ahead! Considering the way this kid has to exit, a bigger head is uh….yikes!
I asked her to check the baby’s sex again and she had no trouble finding a clear shot to print out for me.
There is no more second guessing now. We are officially having our third boy.
We figured as much, so no real surprises here. Like I said before, the real good news is that he is measuring ahead because my cervix is still effacing. Even with the progesterone injections. The doctors are now checking my cervical length and running Fetal Fibronectin tests every two weeks.
But with the way things are going, it looks like steriod shots for the baby’s lungs are in the very near future.
Other interventions, like stronger anti-contraction medication and the dreaded switch from modified to complete bedrest are becoming pretty strong possibilities at this point too.
As much as it might suck, I am willing to do anything at this point just to get this little guy to stay put until after the new year.
Because I know there is no way he is going to wait until the middle of February.
Things have been a little crazy lately.
Okay, maybe that is a bit of an understatement.
First things first, I took that horrendous three-hour glucose tolerance test.
I went into it thinking that my worst problem would be the boredom I would have to endure sitting around the waiting room in between blood draws.
I was wrong.
About ten minutes after I drank the glucose solution, I started to feel dizzy and nauseous. Really nauseous.
I told the phlebotomist that I felt like I needed to throw up.
She warned me that if I did, I would have to come back another day and do the whole test over again.
So I sucked it up and sat in the waiting room for another two and half hours watching HGTV and trying to hold in the upchuck.
Until I got out to the parking lot. Then I puked.
But at least I made it through all the blood draws first.
The test results came back two days later, and much to my surprise, I passed.
I had it the last time I was pregnant and my one hour test came back pretty high, so I figured I was doomed.
Especially since that 3 pound bag of Smarties I consumed during the week of Halloween couldn’t have helped any.
Even so, I don’t have gestational diabetes this time around. Hooray!
The good news was short lived though. Later that same night, I starting having cramps. And sharp contractions.
Much to my dismay, after several hours, I finally broke down and called the doctor.
Who sent me straight to Labor & Delivery at the hospital.
I ended up staying overnight, hooked up on the monitors. The contractions made my doctor nervous, so they gave me an injection to calm things down.
It didn’t work so well, so they gave me another one an hour later.
That was followed up with an oral dose an hour after that.
They would have sent me home with a script for the oral medication but decided not to because the side effects were worse than the contractions. I ended up with an excruciating headache that made me dizzy and nauseous.
Guess who threw up right before being discharged?
Yep, that was me.
The doctor threw around the idea of keeping me another night, but I was exhausted and really wanted to get home to my own bed at that point.
I don’t sleep in hospitals.
The big goal now is to make it past New Year’s with this baby still in my belly. Hopefully the modified bed rest, progesterone injections and muscle relaxers will do the trick.
Today is National Prematurity Awareness Day.
As the mother of a preemie with the very real possibility of having another premature birth in the near future, this day is especially significant for me.
Last year, Bronx was born five weeks early…and he wasn’t ready.
I broke into my stash for the first time in over a year tonight.
I didn’t want to, but I had to check the inventory.
Because I am afraid I might have to start shooting up again very soon.
Shooting up insulin, that is.
I got a phone call from the doctor’s office on Friday letting me know that I failed my glucose screen with flying colors.
Not exactly a surprise.
I was so sure that I wouldn’t pass that I would have put money on it, but it turns out people aren’t exactly comfortable placing bets on the outcome of someone’s health.
When I was pregnant with Bronx, I failed the one-hour screen by such a huge margin that I was automatically diagnosed with gestational diabetes and sent directly to the diabetes management center.
This time, I failed it by quite a bit, but not enough to get to skip the three-hour glucose tolerance test.
In case your not familiar, this means that bright and early tomorrow morning I get to sit in my doctor’s office for three hours doing nothing but starving and getting my blood drawn repeatedly. (I have to fast for 12 hours before and all during the testing.)
This is not my idea of fun.
Even worse, my husband has to take off of work to stay home with the kids while all this is going down.
So in a very twisted way, tomorrow morning is going to be like a pretend vacation for me.
Not exactly what I have in mind when I think about trying to snag a little “me” time.
I guess I’ll take what I can get.
Especially since pretty soon the only foreseeable free time I will be getting will be spent with some old “friends” of mine.
I’m pretty sure that I won’t be passing tomorrow’s test.
And if I don’t, there’s another risk factor for preterm birth.
As if I already didn’t have enough.
It’s that time of the year yet again…
Time to pick out Christmas cards.
This is actually one of the few holiday things that I love to do. I am by no means a Grinch or anything, but there are some things about Christmas that make me more than a little Bah-Humbug.
Like Christmas music. Just the first few notes of a carol are enough to make me break out in hives.
And snow…which I know isn’t just exclusive to Christmas, but the sight of it makes me want to run away to a place where cold, white stuff falling from the sky is never in the forecast.
And elves totally give me the heebie jeebies. I actually think that one might have something to do with Will Ferrell.
But, I do love Christmas cards. Especially now that I have adorable children whose pictures I can plaster all over the front of them.
Because seriously, who wouldn’t want these cuties popping up in their mailbox?
How beautiful is that?! I swear, they have to be the most gorgeous announcements I have ever seen!
So now I have to face the dilemma of having to choose the perfect card design. I used last year’s Christmas photos just to get an idea of what the finished cards would look like and now I am torn between these two…
I also kind of like this one, although the color scheme doesn’t really scream Christmas:
Which one do you think I should choose?
(**Thanks to Shutterfly, who will be providing me with 50 free cards for writing this post. If you are a fellow blogger and want to get in on the action, click here to sign up).
I’ve decided that if MTV wants to make me a decent offer, I will sign on to do the next season of Teen Mom.
Even though I am not a teenager. Not even close.
But I figure that if people want to keep treating me like I am, I might as well play one on TV.
(Yeah MTV, Add me to the roster. I can do baby momma drama just as well as the rest of them.)
For the most part, I have learned to deal with the dirty looks and stupid remarks.
It doesn’t really shock me anymore.
That is, until I ran into the mean, old ladies at Wal-Mart last night.
Or maybe I should just say Mean Old Lady, since I only heard one of them talking, but since she was talking to her friend in what appeared to be a mutual conversation, I am declaring the other lady guilty by association.
And this particular woman takes the cake when it comes to all the not-so-nice comments that have been directed toward my “teen” mom self.
These mean, old ladies were sitting in a booth at the in-store restaurant and I had stopped in that section to get an Icee.
After getting the drink, I had to pass by their booth to get back to the shopping area. They had given me classic dirty looks when I had passed by them coming in, but, like I said before, I’m used to that.
What got my attention was hearing, “And then you have these fifteen year-olds who have no trouble at all getting pregnant.”
I guess she could have been talking in general, except for the fact that she was staring me down. Staring down at very pregnant, little, young-looking me with an infant in my shopping cart.
It’s times like these when I almost wish that I were a little bit more confrontational. Because I would have loved to have thrown a few snotty words right back at her.
Of course, I didn’t. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that my ability to avoid fighting like the plague is probably the only reason why I don’t have a criminal record.
It’s probably also the reason that if I really were a teenager, MTV still wouldn’t be interested in me.
I may have left a few teeny, tiny important details out of my last post.
For instance, how far along I am is kind of a big deal at this point, considering all this preterm labor concern.
Past the point of viability, but still in very scary territory.
There are a million reasons why I need to keep this kid baking for another ten weeks at the very least, but most of them have to do with the fact that I really want nothing to do with a NICU that is almost an hour away.
I have already given birth to a premature infant, which is one of the reasons I am being monitored closely this time around.
I’m terrified of having to spend the first moments of this new baby’s life watching him struggle to breathe. Terrified of seeing him with wires sticking out of him everywhere.
Terrified of not being able to hold my newborn son.
I would absolutely hate to have to endure that again. But despite all of that, we were actually lucky last time.
I couldn’t imagine how heartbreaking the situation would be if I delivered him now.
Or even a month from now.
We really need those ten extra weeks.
My second round of PIO injections went much better than the first time. Even though my husband said I jumped when the huge needle went into my booty, I have yet to feel any significant pain or discomfort.
All thanks to YouTube.
I found a video online of a lady giving herself the same injection in preparation for IVF, and after she took the needle out she rubbed the injection site to help spread out all the nasty oil.
That was the magic trick. I did it today after my injection and despite the weird look I got from the nurse and my husband, it worked.
Unfortunately, I don’t think the progesterone is really helping me any at this point. I had another ultrasound and my cervix is shortening. (FYI: The tech didn’t look at the baby even though I now have my husband doubting the last ultrasound, so he asked and I had to explain that she couldn’t see the baby while doing a transvaginal cervix check. The tech backed me up on that, so we are still without confirmation of the baby’s sex.)
All the cramps and sporadic contractions have been doing something and the progesterone may be slowing it down, but it isn’t stopping it.
I go back in tomorrow for a Fetal Fibronectin Test. If that comes back positive, then there could be lots more preterm intervention measures in my future.
I was pretty sure before, but now I am convinced.
This baby is coming early.
My last OB appointment was with Dr. Coyote Ugly.
And I finally lost the battle over progesterone injections.
I tried to think of all the valid arguments that I had come up with about why I wanted to avoid them, but when she started interrogating me about it on the exam table, my mind went completely blank.
All I could come up with was the fact that other people I know have warned me about how uncomfortable the injections are.
That’s a pretty lame excuse when the doctor thinks that you could very likely deliver by 28 weeks and end up with a very tiny baby in a neonatal intensive care unit.
I knew how stupid I sounded as soon as the words left my mouth.
In my defense, up until last week, I never considered the baby at risk for delivering so extremely early. I knew from the beginning I would never make it to 40 weeks, but I never dreamed that I might be giving birth to a micro preemie.
But there is an extremely high possibility that could happen.
I have been cramping…and contracting. Quite often. And sometimes in patterns.
So, I shut up before I could sputter out any more nonsense and I let the doctor write up the order for the weekly injections.
I had the first one this morning. In the butt.
Letting a nurse shove a huge needle in my backside is not as fun as it may sound, and she has to give the injection slowly so the oil mixture will distribute itself evenly. It is awful. And I haven’t been able to sit or really walk since. It has made my entire left side from the waist down ache.
Those things freaking hurt!
Doing this every week for the next few months is really going to suck, especially since there is no way to tell if the progesterone will keep me from going into labor or not.
No one knows why I went into spontaneous preterm labor with Bronx. And if it happens again, it might not have anything to do with my progesterone levels.
It’s a “try it out and hope that it works” kind of treatment.
Which is one of the reasons I wanted to hold off, but of course, I couldn’t think of that while sitting in the hot seat.
My sister threw a Halloween party this past weekend.
And I just had to go and show off the most awesome maternity costume ever.
Forget the traditional pregnant nun getup, the little guy and I are going as Mommy & Baby Skeletor this year.
Oh, yeah. And our bones glow in the dark. So cool.
The only other time I have ever been knocked up for Halloween was when I was pregnant with Kamryn and since I was only about 6 weeks along then, I wore this:
Know this : One day I will hijack my old body back.
This is the first time that I have been pregnant and showing for Halloween…so I was really excited to dress up the belly. Make that SUPER DEE DUPER excited.
But then a very bad thing happened.
We arrived at my sister’s house around eight that night. She had been out at a football game all day tailgating, so let’s just say that she was fairly intoxicated by the time we showed up for her party.
Okay, actually she was completely drunk.
Shortly after we arrived, I started searching through her fridge for something to drink. Unfortunately, there were few options.
Beer and Coke Zero were my only choices.
Obviously, the first one was out of the question, and since my bout with gestational diabetes with my last pregnancy, Coke Zero and I only hook up on a desperate, need-be basis.
I really did not want to settle for the lesser of two evils.
So, I kept searching. That’s when I found a 20 oz. bottle of Tampico fruit punch sitting on the top shelf.
Ah, miracle of miracles.
It was already open, but only missing a few sips. I pulled it out and asked my sister if it was hers. She said yes, so I asked her if I could have it and again, she said yes.
I poured roughly half the bottle into a plastic drinking cup and took a drink.
About two and a half sips later, some guy came over to where we were and started chatting with me and my husband. A few minutes into the conversation, he noticed the Tampico bottle next to me on the counter and motioned to my cup.
“Are you drinking my punch?” He asked.
“What? This is my sister’s.” I reply and then I turn to my sister and say,
“This is yours, right?”
My sister responds with a no.
“So, you are drinking my punch!” Random guy exclaims.
Yuck. I had just discovered that I was drinking after a total stranger. Heebie Jeebies quickly ensued.
All I could think about was how I may have just been exposed to millions of disgusting germs.
Yes, I am a total germaphobe.
Seconds later, another equally terrifying thought crossed my mind.
That punch had tasted sweet. Really sweet. A little too sweet.
I passed the cup to my husband and told him to try it. I explained to him that I was suspicious about it being only fruit punch. He couldn’t tell, so he asked random guy.
My fears were confirmed. Random guy had mixed it with some sort of green liquor.
The punch had been spiked.
I unintentionally drank while pregnant.
I started to panic as the reality of what had happened sunk in.
I knew that I didn’t consume enough to amount to much of anything, but I was still a little freaked. I never drink when I am pregnant. Not a drop. I have had people tell me that a glass of champagne or wine is fine in moderation, but I think that it’s a risk too big to take. No one knows how much alcohol is “safe” to drink while pregnant. And knowing that a developing fetus doesn’t have the capability to metabolize alcohol the way an adult would, all I can think of is for every drink that you have, the baby sits for hours in a pool of alcohol-infused amniotic fluid.
It really scares the pants off me.
Plus, I’m not a big drinker when I’m not pregnant, so I’m not really missing much.
That’s why the accidental ingestion made me a little nervous. Until my husband helped me come to the conclusion that the few sips I took probably didn’t contain enough alcohol to even make it to the placenta.
Sometimes it helps to be married to someone so rational.
Then again, I still think I’ll be staying away from fruit punch for awhile.
I usually accompany my husband to my three-year old’s weekly karate class.
Last week, I decided to stay at home.
Oddly enough, people noticed.
One of the other dads even decided to question my husband about my unexplained absence.
The conversation went something like this:
Other dad said, “Hey, your wife isn’t here tonight, did she have the baby?”
My husband, completely shocked, replied “No. She’s only 5 months.”
Other dad, slightly confused, said “Oh, really? Wow. She looks like she could go any day now.”
21 weeks along, and apparently, I look like I’m ready to pop.
I managed to find the gender confirmation ultrasound shots for both of the boys.
I think it’s time for a little comparison.
When you look at the boys’ scans, it makes the new baby’s picture seem ridiculously ambiguous. I think another ultrasound is a good idea at this point…
Ever wanted to test out your skills as an ultrasonographer?
Here’s your big chance.
I have the “money shot” from our last ultrasound.
And I’m going to see if you can see what I (possibly because I might be in a little bit of denial) see.
Or maybe you will see what the tech and the doctor (and possibly I) saw.
Then you, the jury, can render your verdict.
Trust me, I have some pretty compelling evidence here.
Here is the original shot:
And here is the image with the important parts circled, showing how the medical professionals determined that the baby is a boy:
It seems pretty obvious. However, upon closer inspection, I spied something rather interesting:
Do you see how the alleged penis lines up exactly with something that runs all the way to the edge of the picture?(Click on it to enlarge)
I know that I could be completely off base with this, but I’m thinking…
Anyone willing to give their expert (or not-so expert) opinion on this?
I’d love to know what you think.
I am usually a laid-back, ultra-chill kind of girl.
Until someone messes with one of my kids.
Last week, someone unfortunately did.
And now, without further ado, I am going to go on a crazy mommy rant about it. (Grab a Snickers, we could be here awhile.)
Here is what happened:
Kamryn attends an afternoon preschool program at our local high school. Last Wednesday, Kamryn was bit (and I think also scratched) by this Tasmanian devil of a kid in his class. The teacher (who is supposed to be supervising the high schoolers who are, in turn, supervising the little kids) went out of her way to inform the parent of the little aspiring Mike Tyson, but did not make an effort at all to inform me that my child was hurt. Kamryn told me on the way to the car and I had to chase after the teacher and ask her if he was indeed bitten like he said. She briefly explained that he was, she had put ice on it and that the other child was suspended from class the next day. I wanted to press her further, but she was trying to shuffle some of the other kids back to their parents, so we loaded up and went home.
A short while later, when I was back in my kitchen and had started cleaning and bandaging the bite, I saw scratch marks all over his neck and face and noticed that he was absolutely filthy. It looked like he had been in an all-out playground brawl. So, I picked up the phone and called the teacher at the high school. I asked her about the additional war wounds that I didn’t initially see at the pick-up, because I was a little distracted by Kamryn pointing out the teeth prints in his arm. She had no explanation. I told her that I wasn't too shocked about a biting incident going down in a room full of preschoolers, but that I was really concerned about the fact that no one made an attempt to notify me of the situation. She explained that this has never happened before and that she didn't know what to do, so she had went to the administration. She said that she had planned to call me later that day.
Even if that were true, (and I don't think it is...I think she was just trying to cover her ass) it is still unacceptable to 1) not be prepared for this type of situation ahead of time and 2) to not have enough common sense to let the mother of the child who was injured what was going on, despite the fact that she went out of her way to come out ten minutes early with the offending child to let his mother know what was going on. Are you freaking kidding me? Obviously a bite can sometimes warrant medical attention and I would never have known if Kamryn hadn't told me. Any normal person would know that is not the responsibility of a three year old. Although, I am starting to think that maybe they were banking on the odds that maybe Kamryn wouldn’t tell me and then they would be free and clear of any liability issues.
What makes me even more distressed is that when I was on the phone with the teacher she told me that she didn't know how Kamryn got the additional scratches, but she admitted that out of 10 high school students and herself, no one witnessed what had happened and only one student discovered what was going on when Kamryn finally screamed. That is ridiculous considering there are only 8-10 kids in the class to begin with. Someone should have been watching.
The whole operation seems a little disorganized at best and now I am afraid that the children aren't being supervised properly. Case in point, the day after the biting incident, as the high schoolers were bringing the kids outside for pick-up, one of the teenagers turned the kid she was walking out loose as soon as they were out the front door without looking to see if his mother was even there. The kid dashed right out into the parking lot. Furthermore, the teacher is new (I guess she is replacing someone who taught the class for 30 years) and from what she has told me and her actions, I don't think she knows what the heck she is doing. I'm keeping a close watch for the remaining 7 weeks of the program...but if anything crazy happens again, I'm yanking Kamryn out of the class and I will be notifying the school administration. Until then, I’m more than a little bit apprehensive.
This is my first experience with problems at a school, and I know that this likely won’t be my last. The only good things to come out of this is that the biter was ultimately expelled from the class and I think that my phone call to the school made the teacher a little intimidated by me, so I don’t think she will let anything else happen to Kamryn on her watch.
I think the other kids may still be attending at their own risk, though.
Honestly, I wasn’t really all that surprised when the ultrasound revealed that we were on Team Blue again. And despite how gung-ho I was for a girl this time around, I really wasn’t as disappointed as I thought I would be.
In the end, you get what you get. It’s luck of the draw. And I am happy that we are getting another baby, regardless of the sex.
Much to my surprise, a few of the people in my life made comments assuming that I was taking the news of another boy pretty hard.
Someone even went as far as asking if we were going to keep the baby.
I know. My jaw dropped too.
To say I wasn’t expecting to hear that would be an understatement. The comment took such nerve, or such stupidity, that it completely threw me off guard. I thought that it should have been obvious -- the news that we had another healthy, 10 ounce baby growing right on schedule kind of overshadowed any bad feelings I could ever have about not getting a girl.
But I guess some people were expecting me to have a total crazy lady meltdown.
Contrary to popular belief, I am excited and happy.
Over the moon to be expecting this new little guy.
But my imaginary therapist would probably argue that I should take a few minutes to whine about not getting my dos equis. Just to get it out of my system.
Because it is a little annoying that almost everyone I can think of who is pregnant right now is getting pink.
Don’t roll your eyes. I know how stupid gender disappointment is. And I swear, once I finish writing this hissy fit of a post, I’ll be over it.
The only reason I am even the teensiest bit jealous is because everyone convinced me that this time around, we’d for sure be getting some sugar, spice and everything nice.
I was almost certain of it myself. I bought a pink onesie right after I got the positive HPT and I swore that the universe was sending me all kinds of signs that we were getting a girl this time around.
But here we go again with more snails and puppy dog tails.
Seriously. Three boys.
I’m starting to think that my husband only has Y swimmers.
Basic biology would argue that fact. I googled the subject and it turns out that all men make an equal amount of both. In case you are as curious as I was, here is a diagram showing how sperm is produced:
But I have proof otherwise.
I may be a little bummed that we won’t be buying dresses and hair bows (again!) and I may have also fantasized once or twice about finding out in the delivery room that the ultrasound reveal was wrong.
But, that’s about as far as my disappointment goes.
Ultimately, I know that the dresses and bows aren’t really important.
And I know that when I meet him and see how healthy and beautiful he is, it won’t matter anymore.
When I see him on the ultrasound screen or feel him kick now, I know it doesn’t matter.
Because I already love him.
Awhile back, when I was researching the accuracy of the Intelligender test, I came across a number of people who posted their suspicions about the product being nothing more than a PH test.
I wanted another excuse to play science lab in my bathroom, and it just so happened that I was lucky enough to win another test online, so I figured I would test the theory out.
The assumption is that a more alkaline urine sample will produce a boy result and a more acidic sample will produce a girl.
It made sense to me. The first time, I tested with my first morning urine (like the instructions told me to) and considering that the only thing I had to drink the night before was water, it was plausible that the boy result could be PH related.
And here’s how the test looked right after I took it:
For a few minutes, I was convinced that the PH theory was confirmed.
But when I checked it at the five minute mark, (as directed by the instructions) it looked like this:
I’m pretty sure that it is not a PH test. I’m actually a little shocked that I couldn’t trick the damn thing. I should also mention that after I did this little chemistry session, Intelligender put up a blog post stating that the product is not a PH test.
I know that a ton of people have gotten the wrong result with this test, but it worked for me. And even though I know that it was a 50/50 shot, I still wonder if my baby boy factory oozes so much testosterone that no matter what I do, the test would scream boy every. single. time.
My husband swears that his family has an XY curse. His grandfather came from a family of six (OMG!?) boys and Matt is the oldest of four boys. I used to laugh at the so-called “curse”…
but now I think that it may be true.
I officially had my first pregnancy panic attack this week.
It was anything but fun.
I woke up with abdominal cramps and back pain that radiated down into my thighs. My legs were so achy I could barely walk and I was also feeling nauseous.
All are symptoms of preterm labor, and I am high risk for that sort of thing.
I tried to take it easy, hoping it would ease up on it’s own.
No such luck.
After 7 hours of resting and some Tylenol, I broke down and called my doctor’s office.
They asked me to come in immediately.
An exam and an ultrasound confirmed that nothing was really progressing. Baby was staying put for the moment.
The doctor prescribed me a muscle relaxer to calm my insanely irritable uterus and a pain reliever to help me feel better. He told me that I am no longer allowed to exercise (not even a walk on the treadmill!) and that I am supposed to rest whenever possible.
Rest? Ha! I don’t even know what that is.
I woke up the next day with the same set of symptoms. The medication didn’t seem to be helping much.
Until the next morning, when I realized that the preterm labor issues had disappeared and been replaced with some horribly familiar urinary problems.
I knew instantly that it was another stupid kidney stone.
What I didn’t know is that kidney stones can actually cause preterm labor.
Another mystery solved.
It took three days to finally pass that little rock of misery, which ended up being twice the size of the one I passed a few weeks ago.
I’m praying that there aren’t any more, but I suspect that there might be.
And that really freaks me out.
It’s no secret that when I found out I was pregnant this time around, I took a truckload of HPT’s.
For some reason, I was in straight up denial.
After the sight of twenty different double lines and a digital “pregnant” display finally sunk in, I decided to give the POAS marathon a rest.
Until I found a coupon for a box of E.P.T.’s
I had never taken a blue dye, plus/minus pregnancy test before and I was starting to hear via the blogosphere that they were highly unreliable because the blue dye tends to transfer into places that it sometimes shouldn’t, which can lead to faint false positives.
I was tempted to try it out.
Then I found a coupon for a free pregnancy keepsake gift from E.P.T. if I sent in a proof of purchase.
I actually save my positive tests for scrapbooking purposes and even though I always cut off the urine-soaked wick, my husband still thinks it’s gross.
I hardly ever care what he thinks though.
The promise of a pretty purple pouch sealed the deal.
I bought a box of 2 tests, hoping that I could convince my husband to take the extra one to see if he could get a false positive. Not surprisingly, he declined. The guy is seriously no fun.
I took one, got the unmistakable plus sign, and then I sent off the receipt and waited for my free gift.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
Last weekend, it finally found its way to my mailbox.
I was pretty excited. Until I opened it up and saw this:
Yep. Some creep stole my pee-stick pouch. Ripped it right out of the cardboard mailer. Who the hell would do that?
I am really against stealing. I am against anything that I wouldn’t like done to me and that is why I never touch anything that is not mine. That said, I was pissed.
Some stupid jerk stole MY pee-stick pouch.
My husband, being the clear, level-headed, reasonable one in our relationship, suggested that I call E.P.T. and ask them to send me another. I didn’t really see the point, and I figured that they would tell me that there was nothing they could do because it happened in the mail, but I called anyway.
Turns out, I didn’t give the nice people at E.P.T. enough credit.
I explained what happened and the lady I spoke with told me that they could not send me another one.
Boo. Now I will never have a pretty purple pee-stick pouch of my own.
However, she did explain that she could send me a refund for the price of the pregnancy tests, though.
That made me feel a little bit better.
But…I still really want my pouch back.
So, if any of you run into my pee-stick pouch thief out on the street, please feel free to give them an ass-kicking on my behalf.
And if you find the pouch, don’t mail it to me. It’s obviously not safe.
Today was our big ultrasound with Maternal Fetal Medicine.
They did a full anatomy scan, which took about a half hour and the machine was set up all weird so I didn’t get to see any of it. Talk about a total suckfest.
So I laid there, completely bored, watching my husband play with Bronx. Every few minutes I would shoot a glace at the tech, who kept a poker face the entire time, so I couldn’t gauge whether or not things were fine.
It was a rather unsettling (and annoying) experience.
And at the end, she finally turned the screen towards us and showed us the baby, but only for a few short minutes. We did get see the little one kick a few times though and we left with some new pictures.
Then she got up to leave and said that the doctor would be in to do some additional scanning.
That freaked me out. It always seems like the doctor gets called in when there is bad news.
Matt picked up on it too. As soon as the tech left the room, he said, “What’s wrong? Why is the doctor going to scan you again?”
I was actually pleasantly surprised by his concern. I get annoyed with him sometimes because he’s never all that concerned. About anything.
We’re kind of like Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann in Knocked Up. I’m worried about mercury and pedophiles and he thinks I’m just a neurotic who watches too much Dateline.
Seriously, it’s exactly like that.
Anyways, back to today’s ultrasound.
I reassured Matt (and myself) that when we had done our fetal echocardiograms with both of the boys, the doctor had always done some additional screening, and everything was fine then.
It had to be a routine thing, I told him.
Thankfully, it was. The doctor said that the baby looked absolutely perfect and is measuring right on target to the day. She also mentioned that baby weighs 10 ounces!
In other great news, the tech and the doctor both confirmed the gender and it turns out, we are having….
And even though I didn’t get my dos equis this time around, I am still just as happy.
My reign as the only princess in this palace continues on…
…at least for now.
I was afraid of shopping for maternity jeans. Very afraid.
When I was pregnant with Kamryn, I bought a pair of regular size 6 jeans (I’m normally a size 0/1) and I swam in them. I also bought a pair of black stretchy maternity pants (aka. huge fat lady slacks) and I swam in those too.
Those pants went to the Goodwill immediately after his birth.
When I was pregnant with Bronx, I got big during the spring and summer months, so I ended up wearing shorts and never needed to buy any maternity clothing. I also only gained 19 pounds with him, so I just went up a short size at Hollister. The sales girl there may have given me a few dirty looks.
But now, I need jeans. And I was terrified that the only things that I would find with an elastic waist would look like this:
There was no way that I was going to subject myself to that kind of fashion nightmare.
So I searched desperately online for jeans that had a short inseam (Remember people, I am only 4’11”) and normal size legs.
I finally stumbled upon Gap.com.
I found jeans - “demi panel sexy boot cut” maternity jeans with a 29” inseam.
Hallelujah! I had just found the Holy Grail of maternity pants.
I ordered two pairs in two different washes and used an awesome coupon code to get both pairs for just a little bit more than the original price of one. (Coupon codes are so awesome).
The pants arrived five days later and I was so excited to try them on. I tried on the lighter wash first and they fit perfectly. I almost didn’t even bother trying on the other pair. They were the same exact style, same exact size, just darker. They had to fit exactly the same, right?
The darker wash was at least an inch longer in length and they were way baggier in the butt and crotch.
I immediately called Gap and asked if I could send the darker wash back and exchange it for another pair of the lighter ones.
As my luck would have it, the lighter wash was out of stock in my size and the representative could not tell me if they would be getting any more in stock anytime soon.
The rep said that she would do some sort of check, a “brand inquiry”, and that I would get an email on Monday letting me know if the jeans would get restocked.
Monday came, no email.
I called the Gap again and another rep told me that she couldn’t pull up any information about whether or not there would be anymore of the “fabulous jeans”. She also couldn’t tell me when I would be getting the email.
This is where my problems with the Gap started.
Both of the customer service representatives I spoke with were super nice, but they couldn’t tell me anything (Except what kind of pants they wore when they were pregnant and how old their kids are and yada, yada, yada). I was getting a little frustrated because Gap has a 45-day time limit on returns from the date of purchase, and one of the reps told me that if they did restock my “magical pants” it could take up to 30 days, and that wasn’t counting how long it would take for me to find out if they were getting restocked in the first place.
Then I was informed that because I was exchanging one wash for another, I would probably be charged the difference between the original price for the light wash I wanted and the actual price I paid for the darker wash. However, when I ordered both pairs I paid the same discounted price for both washes. That seemed really ridiculous.
After my second phone call and still no email updates, I just gave up. I threw the darker pair in the wash and shrunk them.
They now fit a little more like the lighter wash. Sort of.
The email from Gap came shortly thereafter.
“Thank you for your interest in gap.com Recently you contacted us with a question that required additional research. We were able to learn the following:
Unfortunately, the Demi panel sexy boot jeans (faded medium wash) will not be replenished on our site. We apologize for any disappointment this may cause. As a fashion retailer, we continually strive to create new
designs and, as a result, our collections are constantly changing. We frequently bring popular products back, so we will be sure to share with our merchandising team your desire to see this product in the future.”
Thanks for the disappointment, Gap.
(P.S. Last chance to vote on what you think the sex of baby #3 will be! 22 hours left until the big u/s! Yikes!)