It’s day three of NaBloWhatever and already I’ve begun to suspect that I’ve made a major mistake in signing up for it. Sure, I could simply NOT DO IT but then I would probably beat myself up for saying I would do something that I DIDN’T do. I’m not only stubborn, but stupid too. And a healthy dash of neurotic mixed in. Feel sorry for The Daver. I do.

Part of the problem is that I normally post during the daytime hours–which have been dreadfully shortened thanks to DST, that wily jerk–and my blog was down during those hours. It’s encroaching on 4:30 here and it’s getting dark out. Which inhibits my writing mojo. Because I’m the anti-vampire?

But I digress…

Last week, I got a bee in my proverbial bonnet (because seriously, I haven’t had an actual bonnet since I was a baby) about sending Alex to preschool for toddlers several mornings a week. I cheerfully looked up the area churches figuring that Dave’s early life in the church could probably hold enough sway to admit my son. And I came to one of many impasses: it appears that not only is my son too young to be admitted to their programs (he has to be 2), he must be potty trained.

Which, hahaha.

Right.

Moving on to Plan B: a couple mornings a week at a local (chain) daycare.

It wasn’t my first choice (hence the Plan B), but I figured that toddlers were toddlers and he’d be able to work off some of that energy a couple of hours a week. And even (praise Jesus!) maybe even take an ever-loving nap once in awhile. Because I have THAT KID, the one who doesn’t nap, ever.

Let’s just go ahead and say he sucks at the whole sleeping thing. Still.

And as anyone who has had a high-energy toddler knows, sometimes a couple hours a week WITHOUT said toddler truly makes even the coldest of hearts (read: mine) grow fonder. He’s just so BUSY and I’m just so GIMPY and he’s bored and I could just use a damn break from him.

So, Friday morning, before my OB appointment, Daver, Alex and I trooped off to the daycare center where I learned several things:

1) Holy SHNIKES is it expensive. I know you’re not supposed to discuss costs or anything because it’s considered rude and low-brow, but holy SHIT is it expensive.

2) All of the toddlers were dwarfed by my mammoth son, who I didn’t even realize was large.

3) All of the toddlers were sick.

THEREFORE:

Now Alex and I are both sick. We have a nasty cold, nothing that’ll leave a permanent mark or anything, but it bodes ill for the coming months.

I have a pretty crappy immune system anyway, always have, so I usually catch pretty much any and everything that the (Big) kid brings home. So, if I enroll him in daycare several mornings a week, it’s pretty much a given that we’ll be sick the entire time. While not the end of the world, it certainly sucks to be sick without the ability to imbibe the Green Death Flavored NyQuil and sleep for 47 days straight.

And Alex isn’t exactly resting, and getting better, no, not MY son. He’s running around, crabby as hell, boogering on every available surface like the slime from Ghostbusters II but less pink, while still NOT sleeping.

So, my friends in the computer, whom I have pledged at least an hour (read: 10-15 minutes) a day for the next 30 days to, give me your wisdom.

What would The Internet do?

(Park district activities are not an option here. Sadly. Nor is sending him out to work, or to the bar. Damn toddler can’t even DRIVE yet.)

As I close down Week 2 of being pregnant and crippled–wait, is that a Lifetime movie? Because it totally should be–I find myself to be more and more empathetic toward the handicapped community. Which, considering I tend to have pretty non-existent sympathy/empathy/whichever one is better toward the majority of the population, is saying quite a bit.

I mean, I always got angry and perhaps occasionally called the police on cars illegally parked in the handicapped spaces. Or if I didn’t call the police, I’d shake my fist angrily AND menacingly at the offending car. Because how scary is that for that car?

But now Going Out has gone from “ooh! Maybe I’ll see something adorable I HAVE TO EAT at Target and buy it! Then EAT it!” to “Fuck, do I really have to leave?” And it’s not because it’s incredibly painful for me to walk, it’s a combination of other factors.

First, I look stupid. This I’m aware of. I go out, wearing this gigantic moon boot of doom, obviously pregnant, and lugging a 30 pound toddler–who is likely screaming in my face–through the store. I knew I looked stupid before I made 70% of the store patrons and staff stop and stare at me, but after making several small children cry (although that might have been because I told them that there was no Santa Claus after they called me a “retarded gimp”), I’m suddenly aware of how people who have real handicaps must feel on a daily basis.

Second, just because I am pregnant and crippled for the moment–and perhaps ugly for the rest of my life–doesn’t mean I am stupid. I mean, okay, okay, I’m kind of stupid, and perhaps even emotionally crippled but really, my IQ is not in the low 30’s. I don’t think. But people see a huge boot on a person and assume that I must be one of those Special People bussed in from an institution on my Big Day Out. Where the toddler and 7 year old with me come from is anyone’s guess.

They occasionally cluck sympathetically, raise their voices to speak to me slowly and loudly in small sentences, “Aaaarrreeee yooooouuuu reeeeaaadddyyy tooooo cccchhheeecckkk ooouutt?” I may look stupid, people, but I assure you that my mental facilities are as intact as they were before I injured my foot. Take that to mean whatever you’d like it to.

And my least favorite of the people that I come across on my brief ventures out into the Real World are the ones that walk behind me impatiently as I gimp along, muttering about how slow I am, practically touching my ass with their crotch, grumbling the whole way along. While I can relate that being frustrated by being behind someone slow is annoying, what I cannot understand is why on Earth they don’t go around me in the miles of space to my left. Slower traffic keep right, and all.

But then, just as I’m accepting that the person behind me really would like to be my hemorrhoid (mental picture is awesome), the minute I head toward a checkout, they speedily zip around me, practically knocking me over to get in front of me. Being slow at walking does not mean I’m slow at getting checked out.

Now, normally I let most anyone with less items go ahead of me, but now that my foot makes me gimpified, I honestly want to do nothing more than get the hell outta there so I can ice that puppy down. I’ll still let people with a couple of items in front of me, but the people who speedily zip past me ruthlessly cut in front of me always seem to be doing one of a couple things:

a) trying to write a check without proper identification (i.e. driver’s license)

b) trying to get the cashier to okay 4,595 expired coupons

c) arguing over a 2 cent price difference between “marked on shelf” cost and rung up cost

d) trying to use a declined credit card by arguing with the bored looking cashier

e) baffling the hell out of the cashier by whipping out food stamps

And I stand there, behind them, chanting “serenity now, serenity now” in my head as Alex attempts to scramble out the cart, shrieks when I dare detain him, as my foot throbs merrily.

I tell you, this whole “being injured” thing is getting more and more annoying. Especially since I have neither good drugs nor a handicapped sticker for my car. Perhaps I’ll get a cane and whack people with it just to make me feel better.

Misery loves company and all that, right?

Wanna play a guessing game with me? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. WAIT, YOU TOTALLY DON’T? Too bad.

So what makes a portly pregnant woman even sexier than she already is? You’re totally not gonna guess this one. Because if *I* had to guess, I’d say a black eye. Which is always in style.

But if you guessed this, go get yourself a cookie and some bourbon.

It’s my Moon Boot! And it’s hotter than you.

See, back in June, I hurt my foot and wound up in the ER. Sadly, it was not performing some amazingly heroic feats, like rescuing some adorable and fluffy kittens from a burning building or climbing up a tree to rescue Little Timmy’s kite, no, nothing so amazing.

I slipped on the fallen-over baby gate and cracked the shit out of it. It was never broken, the ER doc informed me, so I just let bygones be bygones (and so on and so on) and let it heal on it’s own.

Except that it never did. Probably, at least in part, to the 20 pounds I’ve packed on since then (I’m not fat, I’m just big boned).

Begrudgingly I made an appointment with an orthopaedic doctor in the area, while glaring menacingly at my foot as I spoke on the phone, making damn sure that it too was was aware that IT MIGHT GO TO THE DOCTOR. I tried in vain to scare it into submission and healing, but it did not work well. In fact, my foot had the audacity to ignore me. Obviously.

See, I drag my feet (get it!?! PUN TIME!) whenever I have to go to the doctor, especially a specialist, because I go to about 3,476 specialists. This makes me feel like either the sickliest person on the planet, sufferer of Munchausen’s, OR a complete and total hypochondriac.

I’m actually none of those. I just have a number of irritatingly irritating conditions that require specialists, as my GP would probably lose my phone number accidentally on purpose whenever I needed more blood work. I have, in no particular order a gastroenterologist (Crohn’s disease), an OB/GYN (crotch parasite), an endocrinologist (hypothyroidism), and now an orthopod (bruised bone, damaged joint). I also have a terrible case of gas, but that’s neither here nor there.

But, with crotch parasite in tow, I’m unable to be treated by my orthopod in a way that would normally help (read: massive narcotics) (read: awesome), so I’m relegated to a moon boot and an ice pack.

Awesome.

My best friend is getting married in a couple weeks, and while she asked that we wear “black strappy shoes,” I think she’s going to flip when she sees what I’ve taken that order to mean. Sorry, Ashley.

And as for me, in the meantime, I’m going to relish my pregnant and crippled status as best I can. Maybe people will let me cut in line or something. Because dude, if you can’t have narcotics, what good is being hurt?

After waking up from a particularly delicious dream in which I was a female member of a biker gang but being wooed by the Leader of the Pack (apparently, in my dreams, I live in the 1950’s), I was all set to have a Good Day.

After being persuaded to join the Darkside (a.k.a. Facebook), I was all pumped to see who would have come crawling out of the woodwork last night while I slept (apparently this does happen). Then I would have a breakfast of food, glorious, glorious food (can I tell you how much I heart food right now?) and potentially cure fatness or baldness.

Yeah, not so much.

I present to you, my Shit List for today, Wednesday August Something or Another.

*My fence, which was probably excellent at containing small critters to my backyard many years ago before it decided to fall the shit apart. We have a new hole, a new AUGGIE sized hole in it, to match the other 4,000 I’ve already makeshiftedly patched. With classy things like kitty litter buckets and potted plants.

*Auggie. Who, after my nasty blog post, decided to miraculously stop peeing on the carpet and become a Good Dog. Until, that is, he finds an open hole in the fence and boogies on outside. Where I chased him around in my bare feet BEFORE I’d even had my caffeine. Now my feet are bruised and bloody and Auggie? Where he goes next, NOBODY knows. Seriously, I gave up on the little shit to come inside and left him out there. AFTER A HALF AN HOUR OF CHASING HIM AROUND IN MY PJ’S.

(He did come in eventually).

*People who call themselves “friends” only to come around when they need a shoulder to cry on. I have no use for this sort of behavior and will no longer tolerate it.

*My carpet. Because seriously, what idiot puts WHITE carpet in a house?

*The cat pee smell from my basement. I can’t find the location, so I can’t properly clean it, AND since it’s below ground, I can’t exactly “air it out.” Any suggestions?

All right, you’ve listened to me long enough. My turn to cluck sympathetically. What’s upsetting YOU today?

Macrocephalic. Buckethead. Orange-On-A-Toothpick. Satellite.

All words I’ve used to describe my children and their heads. I’d like to point out and be correct that the reason for their enormous melon’s would be related to their father-age, but since the common denominator between them both is me, I’d have to say that the likely culprit who unwittingly passed the genetics to create craniums that should have their own zip code is myself.

While I don’t call myself a “Baseball Head” or “Pinhead” or anything, I like to think that my own head is not overly large. Mainly because it’s not. It’s just that some of my *ahem* family members (my older brother and my mother for example) have heads that planets could orbit. Guess I should be glad that I only inherited the family pot belly, right?

It was, sadly enough, with this Implement of Destruction that my youngest child caused the intense pain that I happen to be in. I’m accustomed to dodging swinging heads as they come toward my person, but I happened to be too close to correctly remove myself from their path of deconstruction.

Alexander, the only child who I can make snuggle me without a tangible bribe, was sitting on my lap the other day, alternating between snuggling me and trying to stick his fingers up my nose, when it happened. He swung his bucket-o-brains backward before thrusting it forward again with as much force as someone who is made of pure muscle can muster.

In other words: a hell of a lot.

I couldn’t duck quickly enough, so !THWACK! his melon made direct contact with the squishy bits of my neck. It hurt like a bitch then, and the following morning–yesterday–I awoke with a massive headache. Relating, I’m certain, directly to his head against my neck.

Down the stairs I trudged, toward the medicine cabinet where I house the one pain reliever I can currently take: Tylenol. Extra Strength fucking TYLENOL. I shook two out into my palm, rolled my eyes and swallowed them. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t do jack to touch the pain.

Eventually the pain became throbby enough for me to call the doctor’s office, which is not something I typically do. I’m a trained nurse, and even though I don’t actually make money from my intended profession, I do know how to treat such things. And I don’t really need another nurse to tell me what to do.

Maybe it’s just my OB’s office nurses that offer the most insanely stupid advice to me when I call. Here’s an approximate conversation I had with one nurse when I was barfing my guts out while pregnant with Alex:

Me: “Um Hi, I’m really sick with this baby, I’m X weeks pregnant and I wanted to know if you had any good tips.”

Her: “Eat an apple.”

Me: “Huh?”

Her: “Apples.”

Me: “Uhhhh….”

Her: “I like potatoes. Like BAKED ones.”

Me: “I gotta…go.”

(click)

Yesterday I had a similar conversation. To make me call the doctor is to admit defeat, but my head was so achy and awful that I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.

Me: “Hi, I’m 14 weeks pregnant and I have a headache. I took Tylenol hours ago and it’s not helping. Can I get a prescription for something stronger?”

Her: “Not without being seen first.”

Me: “But it’s a headache. I can barely see to drive. I don’t need anything too strong. Just something more than Tylenol.”

Her: “You need to see a doctor. Have you tried laying down in a dark room?”

Me: “Hahahahaa! I have kids. Laying down in a dark room doesn’t happen unless I chain them to a wall somewhere.”

Her: “The office is closing anyway. If it’s ‘SO BAD’ you can go to the ER.”

Me: “…..? The ER?”

Her: “Yes. Or we can see you tomorrow.”

Now maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t that seem a little insane to go to the ER for a simple “I need Tylenol 3 headache?” I wasn’t asking for a morphine pump (oh, how I WISH that this had been an option) or a lifetime supply of Vicodin. What shouldn’t have been a big ass deal was suddenly an ER trip away from being labeled an OVER REACTOR!

I never did go to the ER and I still haven’t gotten my headache to go away completely, but it’s marginally tolerable now. Only thing totally solidified is my annoyance with Doctor Office Nurses.

Am I the only one?

I’ve come to the sad realization, my sweet friends in the computer, that I have bitten off more than I will ever be possibly able to chew. My house, if I hadn’t told you before is often called The Menagerie, and in addition to being the Queen Mother of All Sausages, I’m also responsible for the well being of a number of animals.

We currently have: 3 cats, 2 dogs, a bunny, a hedgehog, and two children that may have been feral at one point in time. Like yesterday. And probably this morning.

And since I’ve been with child, I’ve been unable to do some of the animal-related chores that I normally take care of. Dave works approximately 4,836 hours a week, and if I dare ask him to do something outside of what he THINKS he needs to do, I get an earful. And a half.

Ben’s not of the age where he can really and truly help me yet, although he’s getting close. But close isn’t good enough anymore.

The cats? In rebelling against whatever damn cats get irritated about (the change in seasons? The current oil crisis? Republican in the White House?) have found other places to crap and pee, which is not really an ideal situation.

Auggie, in smelling the pee that the dogs who lived in my house before me left so graciously in the carpet fibers, has been peeing in the living room. Not every day, not all the time, but enough to where the (white!) carpet is now ruined.

And as for me? I’m stuck between a rock and a bigger rock. I hate the idea of being so wildly irresponsible and getting rid of one or many of the animals, but I honestly don’t know what else TO do. This doesn’t mean that I WILL get rid of them, have no fear, just that I’m registering that I’m struggling mightily here.

Without any good solution in mind. What would you do, Internet?

Today at approximately 2:45 (do you like how I said “approximately” and then gave an exact time? Me either) I return to see one of my favorite doctors: my OB. He’s the one I saw when I was pregnant with Alex, the one who always “forgets” who The Daver is and asks me if it’s the same guy (he’s joking. I think), the one who always remembers that my grandfather was a doctor. He’s no-nonsense and I adore him.

He’s starkly different from my first OB, the only OB that my crappy HMO would let me see. He wasn’t a bad guy, he probably said all of 12 words to me the whole time I was pregnant with Ben, and that’s okay. I’ve never needed someone to really hold my hand or reassure me (until I spotted. Then that was ALL I needed), and it wasn’t his lack of vocal chords (I can only surmise) but the fact that he was an uber-Christian.

And me? I was unmarried. And unhappy.

I’ll say for him that he never, ever made any real remarks to me about it, save for my first appointment when he acknowledged that things must be really hard right now. And they were terribly hard.

No, what I’m still bitter about with my first OB was the dreaded forceps delivery I had. Which gave me 4th degree tearing–the highest level possible. At age 21. I’ve occasionally pestered Dave to tell me if having The Sex with me is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, and he laughs, but secretly I worry.

*sighs*

I guess I’ll never know.

What I do know is this: I’m literally kicking myself for not asking The Daver (hotdog down hallway aside) to stay home and go with me to this appointment. Not because I’m all insecure and can’t do anything without him, but because it’s one of those Scary For Aunt Becky Appointments, a Landmark Appointment, if I may (and I always may).

Today is the Doppler/Heartbeat day.

And although I’m still sick as shit, still have the world’s worst soapy taste in my mouth constantly, still haven’t taken a proper poo in who knows how long, I’m full of nervous. In fact, I’m so ridiculously nervous that I ASKED MY MOTHER (the least sympathetic/reassuring person on the planet. You have to trust me on this) TO COME WITH ME. Oh yes, yes I did.

If I’m gonna get bad news, I’d rather have SOMEONE besides Alex there to help me out.

*sighs*

I’m a neurotic freak, I know.

I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.

I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.

Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.

Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.

This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.

Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).

Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.

Escapism anyone?

Pregnancy #2: Alexander

After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.

Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.

Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.

Which brings us to…

Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)

Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).

Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.

I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.

Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.

I’m pretty sure I misread Dr. Spock when he made some comment in his epic tome (the only baby book I read) about children being more alike than different. Because I think I need to swap “pregnancy” for “children” here.

This isn’t to say that either of my pregnancies were in any way alike, save for the fact that they both amounted in a massively 60-70 pound weight gain and that they both were boys.

But for years, despite the fact that my brother and I are only alike in that we both have black hair and dark coloring (lemmie give you an example: he got his BA in underwater pole vaulting–actual degree: poetry and photography–and I got my BSN. Now he’s an engineer and I write a blog. Who got the short end of the stick here!?!), I mistakenly took up the mantra that my children would be more alike than different.

I will take this opportunity to allow you to laugh mightily at my expense. Go ahead. It’s okay.

(jerks)

So, it’s come as a bit of a shock to learn that for children I have two completely different creatures. In my current possession I have:

1) A Cranky Fetus. Who may or may not hate me in a teenage angst way. I’d be willing to bet that it’s ALREADY listening to the Cure and wearing copious amounts of black eyeliner.

2) Ben: The Absent-Minded Professor (a.k.a Techno Distracto)

3) Alex: The Ass-Kicker (a.k.a. Techno DisTRUCTo).

Ben cannot remember something as simple as TURNING OFF THE WATER when he’s done at the sink and Alex beats down everything in his path. His habit of whipping things at my face has actually amounted to a fat lip (mine, not his) and Ben has driven me to the brink of insanity with his inability to remember oh, I don’t know…ANYTHING.

So comfort your Aunt Becky, Internet At Large (whose butt looks FANTASTIC in those pants. Have you lost weight?!). Are siblings more alike than different?

Aunt Becky: “I *so* don’t get this song.”

The Daver: “Wait, isn’t this ‘America’?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, I think so. Or maybe it’s ‘Chicago.’ The 70’s had a lot of bands named after cities. Either way, what the fuck do they mean-’25-06-24?’That makes no sense.”

The Daver: “What are you *talking* about? It’s ’25 or 6 to 4′!”

Aunt Becky: “….”

The Daver: “You know, like 3:35 or 3:26 AM?”

Aunt Becky: “…..”

Aunt Becky: “It is not! There is no way!”

The Daver: “What the hell did you think it meant?”

Aunt Becky: “I don’t know!..maybe a combination to a lock or something? No, I refuse to believe this song is about a time of day.”

The Daver: “And a locker combination makes more sense to you?”

Aunt Becky: “No! That’s why I *said* that I don’t get this song, dumbass!”

The Daver: “It’s about smoking dope, Becky.”

Aunt Becky: “I refuse to believe that in all my years being a pothead that I never could figure out that this is a drug song. I have a sixth *sense* about this crap! I mean “Lake Shore Drive? LSD? GET IT?”

The Daver: “Are you still bitter that you couldn’t do the “Dark Side of the Moon” “Wizard of Oz” thing?

Aunt Becky: I cannot discuss this with you. You wouldn’t understand. Goody-goody.

The Daver: “FINE.”

…..

…..

(three days later)

…….

Aunt Becky: Is it really 25 or 6 to 4?