Amelia is scheduled to make her debut on Wednesday and I am crapping myself with glee. Here’s to hoping that she’s not full of woe like the poem says.

I could not be happier unless it was scheduled for tomorrow.

But sadly, these are not the pictures that I wish I were showing you right now. Instead, you get a first hand view of how sad my feet are. The rest of me is sort of swelly, but nothing is as bad as my feet. These pictures should be considered free birth control for teens.

I must add one thing before I let the spirit take you. I specifically got tattoos on my feet so that they did NOT swell and stretch during pregnancy. It appears as though the joke is, as per usual, on me.

Also, yes, that is bruising that you can see. And that IS hair that you see. I’m terrified that my feet might esplode if I get a razor near them. And my idea of a pre-labor pedicure has gone out the window because I am afraid to show people my feet. Except for YOU, Internet. Because I love you THAT much.

And of course…

Quick now, before you vomit into your keyboard and send me a bill for a new one!! CUTE OVERLOAD!! PUPPIES!!

Can I bother you to say a quick prayer or do whatever it is that you people do around 1PM when I’m meeting with my MD and trying to talk him into putting me out of my misery? Dave and Ben and Alex would all appreciate it. And, of course, then there will be squishy baby pictures abounding rather than photos of my disgusting feeties.

On Monday, after spending the day trying to run all those annoying errands before this baby makes her debut, I went to soak in the bathtub (why yes, I do like hygiene!). When I got to the part in which I typically huff and puff and moan and groan shamefully to pull off my shoes and socks I noticed something terrifying.

In the space between that morning and that late afternoon, my feet had ballooned into a ridiculous caricature of themselves. I’d call them “clown feet” but it wouldn’t do them justice. They were a freak show, plain and simple.

So after my brief soak in the tub, I reluctantly put a call into my OB’s office to let them know. To me, as a nurse, sudden swelling = bad news, especially since I didn’t swell with my last pregnancy (I did turn into the Michelin Man during my pregnancy with Ben, but in my defense, it was a ridiculously hot August and now, well, it’s one of the coldest January’s on record).

The nurse, in typical “It’s about to be my time to leave and I don’t particularly want to deal with you” fashion, told me to drink fluids, lay on my left side and rest as much as possible. Fine advice that I readily took. I also had a BP cuff in hand, so I knew my BP was fine, so I let her go.

The following day, after following her orders as best as a person with small kids and needy dogs can do, I realized something fierce: not only had my swelling not decreased, it had gotten worse. My injured foot ached and I could no longer wear the shoes I’d put on the day before.

So I called the nurse back, reluctantly, and by some stroke of luck got one of the smart ones on the line. After explaining the situation, she agreed that this was cause for concern and went off to consult the doctor.

Who insisted I head to the hospital for monitoring. No big deal, right? They’ll do a HELLP panel, check my pee, give me an NST and let me go the hell home. Awesome. I called The Daver to head home so that he could bring me as there was no way in hell I was going to sit and stare at hospital walls alone. Misery does love company, right?

By the time we got to the hospital, they–of course–had no record of me coming in, so I was hooked up to the monitor while we waited and waited for the MD to call back with orders. This was a foreboding omen of The Ghosts Of Christmas Future.

Amelia looked excellent and my HELLP panel was passable–low platelets are apparently something I’ve been suffering from since the beginning–with my liver enzymes nice and low.

My pee, however, had ketones a-plenty. And this is where I made my fatal error.

Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it….

When the nurse, whom I loved and wanted to make out with because she was so damn competent, presented this to me, I said this and regretted it almost immediately: “Oh, yeah, well, my Crohn’s is flaring up and I literally cannot digest food right now. It comes right back out.”

*smacks head*

So she, being diligent as ever, reports this to my doctor (one of about 4,000 OB’s in my practice. Consider this my second bout of foreshadowing into Mistakes I’ve Loved And Lost) who then, assuming I have a virus, wants to keep me overnight for fluids.

Fuck. If there’s any place I’d rather not be, it’s in a hospital bed, chained to an IV.

(also: why he thought “virus” I’m not sure. Last I checked, viruses don’t last for years. At least, not gastroenteritis)

But fine, I said, being the Model of Compliant Patient that I so obviously am. I’ll stay the night, get some fluids and get discharged first thing in the morning.

Also: hahahahahahaha!

The floor is bumping with people who’d been bumping uglies about 9 months ago, so I’m moved to this pathetic armpit of a room typically used for outpatient testing. I’m horrified to note that there’s a second bed in this wee room, but am relieved for the moment that it’s empty.

Bribed with the promise of an Ambien in my future, I lay down in bed to wait for my IV. Over the next 12 hours, I get bag after bag after bag of fluids, when I finally realize that I haven’t peed hardly at all. I look down at my feet, the initial reason for my arrival on the unit, and am horrified to see that they’ve gotten somehow bigger. BECAUSE I AM NOW THIRD SPACING EVERY SINGLE DROP OF FLUID PUSHED INTO ME.

Awesome.

While this concerned me because now I had stumps where my legs had once been, fairly useless ones at that, no one else seemed to care. Everyone was far, far more concerned about my guts. This amused me to no end since this is slightly worse than normal, but still well within the realm of Everyday Annoyances for me.

My amusement, the following morning after sleeping for approximately 6 minutes of the night, is quickly dampened by the fact that my OB (again, one I haven’t met) wanted me to have a GI consult come in and take a peek at me. While I have no issues with GI MD’s in general, I’ve grown pretty damn tired of hearing other doctors tell me these two things:

1) We’re not sure it’s Crohn’s

AND

2) There’s nothing we can do for you right now.

Fucking sweet. I haven’t been hearing that since I was 4 minutes pregnant and in the ER after falling down my stairs or anything.

But again, in the name of being somewhat compliant, I agreed to this. The nurse tells me that the GI should be in around noonish. Fine. Daver was lovingly back by my side and we sat together, staring at the clock for the next 3-4 hours.

We still had only heard through nurses what my OB wants to do and are starting to wonder if this all isn’t turning into a gigantic game of telephone. I’m starting to wonder if I might, instead of a GI, be consulted by a doctor to give me both a sex change and a boob job. The boob job I’d handle, but I’m not certain how much I want a penis, hilarious antics aside.

All that I do know is that the hours are ticking by at a snails pace, I’m not being monitored for much at all, and my feet are ballooning to comical proportions. The dayside nurse who has been assigned to me is easily one of the duller crayons in the box and she has made it completely apparent that she not only has no idea WHAT to do with me as I’m not in labor, she also doesn’t care. She’s the kind of nurse that gives other nurses a bad name.

Sometime after 3 PM, the GI MD gives me a call to chat with me as to what’s going on with me, as he’s on the way to some medical emergency somewhere else. In his favor, he has an incredibly charming accent (I’m a huge sucker for accents). Counting against him is the fact that he’s not going to be available for quite awhile longer.

Some of that fluid accumulating in me is now released in the form of tears. Under the best of circumstances, I’m an ugly crier, and under these, I’m snotting all over myself, Daver and my sad hospital pillow. I’ve not slept, I still can’t keep a damn thing in my body, so my blood sugar is plummeting, and I’m frustrated beyond belief.

The sitting around and waiting I could just as easily do at home and as far as dealing with PinHead, RN, I could call my MD’s office and try to talk to one of the nurses there (I need to clarify that not ALL of the nurses are idiots, lest you think I’m being bigoty). But I made the fatal assumption that the MD would be there around 5 PM, so a couple of extra hours? We could handle it.

But by 5PM, he meant closer to 7:30 PM and by this time I was nearly out of my mind with exhaustion and frustration. No one even attempts to give me a straight answer and I seem to have fallen off the radar of the staff who are dealing with laboring patients. While I want to be all Goodly and stuff and be all “well, they’re busy” the attention I wasn’t getting was absurd. I’ve worked L and D, and I’ve never seen anything so devoid of patient care.

For serious.

But, at about 7:30, the GI MD rolled in and one of the first things out of his mouth after making the obligatory introductions was this:

“I’m not convinced you have Crohn’s.” Suddenly, his accent is stunningly less charming than mere moments before.

Now, I’m aware of this, Patient Reader, and have done the tests that I am able to do while pregnant to ascertain what it is that I do have (hint: it’s not a virus). I’m still waiting on the results of the insane tests that I had drawn a couple of months ago (damn you holiday schedules!) and other than calling it Crohn’s, I’m not sure what else TO call it.

Trust me, I’d be thrilled if it weren’t Crohn’s, providing that there was SOMETHING to be done about it. I won’t be even remotely depressed to learn that it’s NOT.

If I hadn’t been so obviously in distress, I would have found it funny, the ways in which pretty much every member of the hospital staff then had to come in and remind me that I might not have Crohn’s. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a chorus line of male doctors come in with their penises dancing to “We’re Not Sure It’s Crohn’s” in the tune of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”

Everyone from Laundry Services to the Candy Stripers had to come in and “break” this to me. Eventually, rather than trying to explain myself, I remained mute when confronted with this. Like the whole thing with my mother and my mother-in-law who constantly remind me that their husbands never did any baby care, I became at somewhat of a loss as to what to say.

Really, how do you respond to this? What response did they want from me? Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t give the proper one, lest someone actually care about what medically IS going on with me rather than focusing on what might not be. And if it’s bad enough to make me stay overnight, why doesn’t someone look for a cure instead of pointing out something that cannot be currently proved or disproved?

And for the love of Sweet Baby Jesus, why doesn’t anyone talk to me instead of making me feel like a naughty child who has been caught in a lie?

I caught one of my nurses patently lying to my OB, telling him that I was “feeling better” and had “eaten well,” after she’d berated me for not eating. She, of course, got the tail end of my Bitch Stick and was promptly informed of the error of her ways.

The following day after another night of minimal sleep, my amnio loomed large and began to make me quiver with fear. I have an intense fear of the unknown, and while my pain tolerance is pretty amazing, I had nothing with which to compare this to. Was it as bad as a spinal tap? A colonoscopy? Having to listen to the Facts Of Life Song on repeat?

When I was finally summoned and laying on the table, my belly slathered in iodine, I learned one thing about having an amnio: it feels just like you think it would. Honestly, it’s totally like what you’d think one would feel like. Unpleasant, creepy, slightly painful, and not over remotely soon enough.

But one must do what one must do, so back to our closet–now with bonus roommate!–we waited for the results. And when we learned that they were positive for well developed wee lungs, we began to talk of inductions with the OB, whom we have now seen in the flesh for the first time in 3 days.

We learn quickly that he no longer wants to keep us there for now, that we can go! home! as my cervix hasn’t been briefed on anything (oh, and by the way, you might not have Crohn’s!). Rather than stay and fight for a section, we get the hell outta Dodge with vague promises of coming back for RhoGam (in the hospital, even if you are COMPLETELY aware of your Rh- status, you must be type crossed and matched before they’ll give you the shot. That’s your insurance dollars hard at work, people) that evening.

Never, ever has a hospital parking lot looked so beautiful as it did that night on our way home.

I’m going back to the MD tomorrow at 1, and I’m planning to insist on getting this baby out and safe and then getting back to feeling like a human being again. I have my serious doubts as to whether or not it will work, but I’m planning on kicking and screaming and generally making a scene until I get booted from the office by security.

Sadly, it is my duty to report to you that I am still pregnant. Sadly for my feet and mental status. The baby seems perfectly happy sitting pretty in her watery home. I, of course, am not so happy.

I have an excellent story for you all, but in between icing my feet and trying to prepare my house for this baby, it’s going to have to wait. I guess the advantage of being a first-time parent is that you might have actually prepared something in advance, whereas we, well, haven’t. I have a bunch of baby stuff and yet she has nowhere set up to sleep.

Kinda like me!

I have an MD appointment on Monday to discuss induction and cervixes and stuff, and I’ve been loading up on Evening Primrose Oil up the pooter in addition to making Daver have what can only be called Mercy Sex. But if Monday is anything like the 3 days I spent in the hospital, I’ll get absolutely nowhere quickly. So my hopes aren’t exactly sky-high.

Be back soon with my promised story.

I know, I know. 2 whole posts in one day! And none with pictures! Cats and dogs, living together, absolute chaos.

But yeah. Anyway.

As soon as The Daver gets home, I’m off to L and D to get checked out. Apparently, swelling up like a balloon even without other symptoms can be cause for alarm. And my legs and feet? Well, I’ll SPARE you the picture. I’ll take my thanks in the form of gifts and money and possibly a housecleaning. Or a foot rub.

Let me leave it at this: I have extreme doubts that I’ll be able to put shoes on. At all. And I wore them yesterday. I’ll be the freak in flip flops, if you see me out and about.

Man, I wish I could make ’em induce me now. Sadly, tho, I’ll be back later to tell you all about how it was somehow related to me peeing my pants or something equally trite and humilating.

*sighs*

Come on baby girl! Come on out!

Firstly, I must thank all of you for your comments on my last post because, well, it’s not something I often talk about. My relationship with Nat is not an easy one and I’m apt to write off bad behavior because things have improved so drastically from where they had been. I’m lucky that he’s not always in such an cock-blast mood, just every now and again he decides to be a complete weenis.

And to clarify, he now does pay child support. This actually happened months ago before we’d ironed out an arrangement (before he used to pay for Ben’s Nut! Ban! school. Or someone did. All that I know is that I didn’t.) and he’s been decent since then. Not to excuse past bad behavior because that is SO not me, but it’s a situation that I never know how to handle.

My initial reaction, you see Internet is to scream and holler at him, but then it’ll escalate the situation and I’ve never wanted Ben to watch us scream at each other. I always thought that seeing that would be more damaging. But what do you think? I’m curious.

But my real reason for this post is this: I’m looking for some big brother/little sister shirts/onsies that are kind of rockin’. I’m not much into the schmaltzy cartoonish ones, because it’s really not my style, I prefer the funkier side of life, you know?

Oh, BONUS! I took some pictures to show you because apparently people like pictures in blogs. I always thought people would find them annoying, but shit, anything to keep my Internet satisfied. Now, before you point out that I only have one child pictured, Ben happens to not be here right now so I couldn’t take his picture. But rest assured, I will do so.

Here is my darling son doing the best kind of advertising I could find: free. BONUS! Also true. And yes, he does have a heart shaped tongue.

In the name of embarrassing myself in front of the entire Internet more than I already do, I conned Daver into taking a belly shot. It is here and it is frightening. Perhaps I should also include this picture in my dissertation upon why teen pregnancy is bad to scare them. As a bonus on this shot, you can clearly see how swollen I’ve gotten in my hands. It’s hot.

And lastly, Alex looking disbelievingly at the size of his mother. Because I am a whale.

I’ve always wanted to be able to say the phrase: “Honey, I think it’s time” and then rush around off to the hospital in a blind panic lest my baby be born in my car or something. Sadly (or happily, however you look at it), I’ve never been able to go into labor on my own and have missed that step entirely. Since I was induced with both of my kids, the most I got to say was “hey, can you pack the camera charger?”

That phrase lacks….something.

But I digress.

Yesterday, at about 12:45 I began having some pretty bad contractions that didn’t abate when I rested, changed positions, or any of the other things you might want to do to see if This Was It. Turns out, at about 6 PM, I learned that this was NOT, in fact, it. Depressing, but true, Amelia stays put for now.

During those 5 hours of labor (it was just like labor, y’all) Daver was rubbing my back for me in the kitchen while our youngest ran up to him holding a coveted ball.

And just like our own personal America’s Funniest Home Videos, Alex winds up the small basketball and whips it as hard as he can at his poor father’s ball sac. BLAMO, he shoots, he scores.

Dave doubled over in pain, and being the good wife that I am, I immediately launched into a fit of giggles that doubled me over as best as it could, given the back labor I was in.

“Well, that takes care of the vasectomy, Daver. Looks like he just told you what he thought of having siblings.” I sputtered out like the juvenile wife that I happen to be. “Lookit it this way: he saved you the process of going to a urologist.”

And the Daver just glared and glared. Can’t say I blame him.

But here, I put some pictures up! I need to take some more and I will and then I’ll post them and cop out of a real post by putting pictures up and that will be awesome because I’m not so smart anymore which is weird because maybe I never was.

Kthxbai.

Hells to the NO, I don’t want a sibling, Mommy, you ignorant slut.

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

Full Moon Tonight: Check (unproven scientifically, but as nurse and former waitress must agree with it, as have experienced it)

Cervix Softening: Check

Baby Full Term: Check

Number of (documented by hospital records) Times Baby Has Tried To Kill Me: Twice

Dreams of Gigantic 18 lb Babies Being Ejected by Crotch: One (which beats the 60 lb baby dreams I had with Ben. Wait, that was a fantasy)

Hospital Bags Packed: One (last time, simply threw pile of cheeseburgers haphazardly into plastic sack and hoped for the best)

Baby Settling into Pelvis (thereby making me have to pee 1 tbsp every 4 seconds): Check

Increased Need for Semen in Vagina Because Someone, Somewhere Promised that Semen Brings on Labor: Check (poor husband is home from work for exact purpose. Was considering donor sperm if husband not available until it was made clear that you HAVE TO PAY FOR DONOR SPERM. Totally unaware that people could CHARGE for SPOOGE)

Mucus Plug/Bloody Show: Likely intact, although may be coming out of nose

Emotions Range from Stark Raving Mad to Weeping Uncontrollably: Check

Number of Times Husband Has Threatened Divorce: Miraculously, none, although am sure will be summarily paid back when shoulder surgery occurs.

Laundry Piled Up, Needing To Be Put Away: Currently two baskets. Hoping that if labor occurs, husband will have to do it himself for the first time in three years. Scratch that, as I will end up with 5 year old son’s clothes in my closet. Mental note: must put away laundry today.

Desire For Whole Bottle of Beer: Growing by the minute. Know it is bad as Icehouse is sounding tastee.

Jealousy of People Who Have Scheduled C-Sections Before Actual Due Date: Growing by the second.

Disgust with Pants with Elastic Waistbands: Almost epic proportions. Cannot wait to leave them behind. Cannot believe that once thought that they were ‘œcomfortable’ and ‘œkinda cute.’ Annoyed with previous naivety.

Plans For Evicting Baby, Beginning Today:

Sex, or alternately, turkey baster insemination.

Getting involved in huge, massive, messy project, knowing that this is likely the time water could break (would normally have lit cigarette, but have quit smoking)

Locating trampoline and jumping (likely injuring self)

And my favorite:

The Branch Davidians Method: Planning to loudly play Alice Cooper, Corrosion of Conformity, Peter Fucking Frampton, Rush, Any Smoove Jazz I Can Find, Phil Collins, etc to belly. Hoping he will take the hint and decide to come out and turn that motherfucking shit DOWN, motherfucker.

Anything else?

Dear The Old Lady Who Works At The Starbucks In My Target,

When I am greeted by my harried looking husband upon leaving the bathroom with my 5 year old (who loudly chronicled every step of the descent of his poop from his colon to the toilet) with my large green tea latte, and the curt instructions to ‘Taste this. NOW’ it is a very.bad.sign.

How you ruined something that is made entirely from a mix, I am not sure, but how you ruined it 3 times baffles me. Finally, I just asked “make me a large steamed skim with almond syrup,” which is surely a sign that you are not in the right line of work. Because I *still* walked away with a small skim with whole milk.

By this time, I had surmised that you were probably not worth  my time and if I tried a fourth time, I’d probably end up with a cheeseburger. Although it is still painful for me to admit, I walked away from the entire situation without getting a refund for my $1.80.

Still Wantin’ My Latte,

The Largely Pregnant Woman Flanked By Eye-Rolling Men

P.S. My husband is still not sure what you did to his drink.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Outlet Mall Lotion Kiosk Guy,

Do I look like I am desperately in need of your product? Is my skin falling off my body in large discernible chunks, littering the mall floor with its’ fleshy badness? If the answer is no (and last I checked, it was), then when I say ‘No‘ to your inquiry if I have a minute to hear about your product while I walk briskly away from your stand, let.it.the.fuck.go.

Don’t follow me well past your stand, eagerly proffering your lotion bottle as it were a hard penis in dire need of a hand-i-job while repeating yourself over and over, pleading with me to try your product. I promise, even *I* know that your six dollar product is not worth it.

And if you choose to do these things to me, as your type inevitably does (am I a product of racial SES profiling?) DO NOT do these things around my usually-even-tempered-husband. Because he scream loudly at you while threatening you with bodily harm. Which he will then be forced to listen to his wife imitate for weeks (ahem, YEARS) to come, while wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Incorrectly Profiled,

Back The Fuck Off, Motherfucker’s Wife

P.S. Your product sucks and you work in a mall kiosk. An OUTLET mall kiosk. I personally, am just glad that I am not you.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Rapidly Growing Belly,

About 4 months ago, we had a great agreement. You wouldn’t impede my movements too much, and I would feed you McDonald’s Carmel Sundaes when you asked. Life (aside from the hyperemesis, of course) was good. I looked cute, felt cute, and got to rub my cute little belly.

All bets are off now, motherfucker.

I’m lucky if my biggest shirts fit over you now. Shopping for more shirts has proven time and again to be a losing battle, not to mention depressing as f.c.u.k. Yesterday, I burned you on the freezing car. Today I burned you on the hot stove. My mind cannot compute your ample dimensions any longer. While attempting to hug my first son, I steamrolled him to the ground AND IT TOOK ME A MINUTE TO REALIZE WHY HE HAD FALLEN.

On the bright side, I am glad that it wasn’t a seizure like I had initially thought.

Sleeping has turned into a horrible battle of me vs. my burgeoning belly. I grunt when I roll over or move from sitting to standing or pretty much whenever.

Sex has gone from a pleasurable (and how!!!) pastime to an act of mercy on the part of my husband. Mounting and dismounting leave me feeling about as sexual as a goat in tap shoes and the walk of shame to the bathroom has turned into a slow waddle.

Since I no longer feel as though you have upheld your end of the bargain here, I am forced to renig on my own. No more Carmel Sundaes for you until you can show me what I’m getting out of this.

Hungrily yours,

The Only One Of Us Who Has Access To Both A Car And A Wallet

P.S. If you see Cletus the Fetus, please inform him that my bladder is NOT a toy!