Things are already so different this time around.

The day before my BFP, I started spotting. I thought I was getting my period.

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A zillion pregnancy tests later, I’ve ruled out that theory.

I’ve spotted on and off every day since.

Repeated consultations with Dr. Google have helped convince me that it’s probably normal, but I’m still a little anxious.

I have never spotted during any of my previous pregnancies.

I’ve been trying not to freak out, but then I started having terrible back pain.

Which has also been lingering around for the past few days.

It feels like I’ve been sleeping on concrete at night.

I’ve debated over calling my doctor, but I’m pretty sure they are going to tell me what I already know.

Don’t call unless it gets worse. Way worse.

And I don’t feel like it’s an emergency. I don’t feel like I’m losing the pregnancy. The spotting is not constant, and it’s super light. I haven’t had any bright red bleeding like when I’ve miscarried. No lack of pregnancy symptoms either.

In fact, I have actually had an insane amount of pregnancy symptoms already.

I think those are all good signs.

I’m convincing myself that it’s going to be fine, I just need to make it to that first prenatal appointment to get some reassurance.

Until then, I’m going to try not to be a total nervous wreck.

Can You Keep a Secret?

(**To those I know IN REAL LIFE who are reading this…please, please, PLEASE keep the following information to yourself and DO NOT TELL ANYONE, as we have not yet shared this with everyone in our family**)

That said, I JUST HAD TO blog about this.

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I think it’s safe to say that the fertility test I took awhile ago was completely wrong.

And we totally broke that Cycle of Ten thing in half.

It’s my party & I’ll whine if I want to.

I’m getting older.

In fact, I just “celebrated” my first ambivalent birthday.

The first birthday where my age was going to be a number that I actually wasn’t looking forward to.

The big 2-9.

The last year of my twenties.

A number that will be an ever-constant reminder over the next year that the countdown to 30 has officially begun.

I didn’t exactly know how to deal.

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I went out. I had more than a few drinks.

And then I woke up with the first hangover I’ve had since college.

Okay, so that’s one thing I don’t miss from my younger days.

To top it all off, my husband gave me this:

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Oh, no. I’m so NOT turning 30.

It gets worse. The card sings.

My husband has a particularly cruel sense of humor.

Either that, or he just can’t count.

It’s not so far-fetched considering that we've been married for almost 6 years and the man can’t even spell my name correctly.

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So I’m 29 (NOT 30)…and I married a jackass.

Happy Birthday to me.

Liar, Liar.

Remember when I said I was considering lying to complete strangers?

There is more than one reason that I might start adopting the practice.

As it turns out, Bronx’s small size is great for freaking people out.

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Because he looks like he’s around 9 or 10 months old.

But he walks. And he talks.

Like a 2 year old.

It totally throws people off.

They stare at him in disbelief, then gaze down at their own sitting (not able to walk) and babbling (not able to talk) 9 month-old and the wheels start to spin.

“How old is he?” They ask.

I usually, without much thought, reply, “22 months” or “Almost 2”.

And then the scenario gets pretty boring.

It only recently dawned on me that I may be going about this the wrong way. It’s finally occurred to me that I should be taking advantage of this anomaly.

Because seriously, it would be much more entertaining to just say he’s as young as he looks.

Why not just let them think that I have spawned my very own Baby Einstein?

It could be fun…

Running down a dream.

Last year, I ran the Sunburst 5K unknowingly pregnant.

It was my very first road race. The first running event I had participated in since my high school track career had ended 13 years earlier.

I ran it in 40:19. With a potty break.

This year, I ran it again. 4 months postpartum. And with a kidney stone.

That’s right. Another damn kidney stone. My 4th in the past year. My second in the past month.

I ran it in 33:28. Again with a potty break.

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 False advertising. We ran 3.1 miles, not 13. But it’s fun to pretend.

copyright-suburban princess diaries  From left: My BFF, me, & my sisters.

I kind of feel like a badass.

Even if Brightroom didn’t get any photos of me actually running this year.


Not only that, but I have stuck to a solid workout routine.

I am training for more races.

And I have lost all the baby weight plus 3 pounds.

I am starting to look freaking amazing in clothes again.

The muffin top that I have spent the last few years loathing? 

Finally GONE.

The return of my previous beefcake body is no longer a distant dream.

It’s finally starting to become a reality.

Irish Eyes are (halfway) Smiling.

When we last saw the pediatric ophthalmologist who diagnosed Daegan with Ptosis, we were told that he would have to wait until June to determine if the condition was affecting his vision.

We’ve been waiting a long three months. It’s been difficult to have to spend each day wondering if Daegan’s eyelid is obstructing his vision and then to worry if it could be interfering with his vision development.

Today we finally went back to doctor to get his condition reevaluated. The ophthalmologist took various measurements of his eyelid in relation to the severity of the droop. He also noted how often the baby tips his head back to compensate for the eyelid obstruction in an attempt to allow his eyes to be able to work together.

Daegan is constantly tipping his head back, which I thought was a surefire sign that his vision was being compromised.

Apparently, not so. The doctor seems to think that his vision is completely fine.

He then reiterated that we should hold off on the corrective surgery until just before Daegan enters school.

When I asked if it was absolutely necessary to wait, the doctor explained that the surgery is much more successful if there is more tissue present to work with. Infants are not ideal candidates because they are so small.

It looks like my little leprechaun (Daegan is actually a traditional Irish name and oddly enough our little guy is actually a strawberry-blond redhead) will get to keep his googley eye for the next few years.

Not such a great thing for pictures. And I’ll have to put up with the annoying “What happened to/what’s wrong with his eye?” questions for awhile longer.

But if it means that the future surgery will have a better outcome, I suppose it’s worth it.

Daegan will continue seeing the ophthalmologist on a regular basis to monitor his vision, and should the condition start to interfere with his eye development, the surgery will be scheduled sooner.

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Until then, maybe we’ll just start calling him Sir Winks-A-Lot.

Pseudo Twins.

A strange phenomenon has already begun.

Much sooner than I expected it to.

Everywhere I go, I get the same question.

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“Are they twins?”

At first, I thought people were joking.

But they weren’t.

And after taking some time to think about it, the reality of the situation has hit me.

At 22 months, Bronx only weighs 5 pounds more than his 4 month-old baby brother.

Currently, the stats are:

Bronx-17.5 pounds, Daegan-12.2 pounds.

They are one diaper and clothing size apart.

It’s like the baby version of The Twilight Zone.

It gets a little awkward when I explain to the curious bystander that they are not twins.

Because then they jump to this question:

“Are they both yours?”

Yes, they are both mine.

Then I watch the confusion set in as people try to do the math, and the numbers come up wrong.

Eventually I have to give their brain a break and go into details.

They are 17 months apart. The older one is just really small for his age.

Most of the time I have to add that Bronx was a preemie so I won’t have to go into how much of a medical mystery he is.

The times I haven’t added on the preemie disclaimer have left me at the mercy of comments like:

“Is he okay?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Do you feed him?”

Seriously. People have said this stuff.

These innocent public chats-turned-interrogations have started to wear on me.

Which is why I’m considering giving up. It just may be that the next time I go shopping, Bronx and Daegan will be getting matching outfits.

And when people ask if they’re twins, I’m just going to start saying yes.

What the hell, I may even put them in an audition for a Doublemint commercial.

It’s got to be easier than getting grilled by a swarm of strangers every time I leave the house.

Process of Elimination.

We took our itty-bitty Bronx to a children’s hospital last week to meet with a pediatric urologist.

It was a long trip. Traffic was crazy and my pink Garmin (named “Molly” after Molly Ringwald from Pretty in Pink) got us lost by directing me to take a very unnecessary exit off of the interstate. Once I finally figured out where I was going (again, no thanks to “Molly”) I discovered that parking was an even more horrendous mess…and my nerves were so frazzled I actually passed up the opportunity to get it validated.

That was a twenty-two dollar mistake.

Before our meeting with the urologist, we had to take him to the lab for another Cystic Fibrosis sweat test. The first one he had done a few months ago came back inconclusive, so it needed to be repeated.

Once again, my little guy was hooked up to electrodes. Then he sat for about five minutes while an electrical current was sent into his arms to make him start sweating.

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This part made me nervous for one obvious reason…they were hooking my baby up to electricity. The straps and electrodes reminded me of the electric chair.

And who wants something that resembles “Old Sparky” wrapped around their child’s arm?

That was bad enough.

What’s worse?

They had to do both arms.

After that, we had to wait for thirty minutes with Bronx’s arms wrapped to catch the sweat for testing.

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Surprisingly, Bronx didn’t mind having mummy arms.

When we first arrived at the hospital’s lab for the sweat test, the nurse called over to the urology department to let them know that we would be getting there late (The genius that scheduled the two appointments booked them an hour apart, so there was no way we were going to make it on time). We arrived at the urology department thirty minutes late, and were immediately informed that the doctor would not be able to see us because we had shown up past our scheduled time.

Uh, pretty sure that’s what the phone call from the nurse was for. Hey, Urology! We’re held up in labs and it’s not our fault!

I tried to explain. The girl at the front desk said she would speak to the doctor to see if we could get squeezed in.

At this point, I was feeling pretty desperate. We had been waiting for six long months to see a pediatric urologist, and it wasn’t like their office was just down the street. We had traveled to get there, and I was almost in tears just thinking about the possibility of being sent home without seeing this doctor.

We have no idea what is going on with our little boy. What if it’s something that can’t wait another six months to be discovered?

Here’s where things get strange. Just before the girl at the front desk goes back to speak with the doctor, she pulls up Bronx’s information in the computer and starts asking me questions.

Most of which were fairly routine. Except for when she tried to verify the date that Bronx had seen a kidney specialist.

The problem?

Bronx has never seen a kidney specialist.

Upon learning that, the urology doctor decided that there was no need to see Bronx.

We were told we need to see a nephrologist. Not a urologist.

Fabulous. Six months goes by and all we’ve been doing is waiting to see the wrong doctor because someone put inaccurate information in my son’s chart.

I should have been livid. But the doctor, and a nurse who works in the kidney diseases department that I spoke with afterward to try and schedule an appointment both came to the same conclusion that I did after looking at his chart.

The slow growth and the hematuria could be related. And it could be a kidney issue.

It was nice to at least have my instincts now validated by two medical professionals, even if my parking wasn’t.

So now we have an appointment with the kidney diseases unit. That same day we are scheduled to also have more lab work done. The nephrologist has ordered a whole new battery of blood tests and urine samples.

Oh, joy.

This time I advised the patient scheduling department to book the appointments three hours apart. They tried to convince me that an hour and a half would be an adequate amount of time to complete the labs and get over to the kidney disease unit.

Obviously, I know better.

That’s not the only thing that I learned during our visit. I also was given some very good news over the phone during our drive back home.

My blondie bear, Bronxie, does not have cystic fibrosis.

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