Holiday!

Christmas this year was fantastic - at least, it was once I unwound a bit. Ragsy got what he wanted (mostly) and behaved really well (mostly) and Evelyn slept somewhat well (kind of). The only black spot on the whole thing was me, and I made Christmas Day a lot harder on myself than it needed to be, but fortunately didn't impede anyone else from having fun.

I was wound tight as a spring, waiting for Ragsy to misbehave and spending way too much time trying to calm Evelyn, who was overstimulated and under-rested most of the day and night on Christmas Day. She was having a typical baby meltdown, which occurs when she gets way too stimulated. Ragsy went through the same thing the first time we took him on a trip. I should have expected it, but I must have blacked it out. I was trying to be everything to both kids, which just wasn't necessary.

It took my brother-in-law commenting on it the next day to make me realize that I was unnecessarily tense. His exact words were, "Wow, you were so laid back, but you've done a 180 since you had kids. Why? I hope Missy and I don't do that when we have kids." I'm lucky he's so candid; I think everyone else was afraid to tell me I was being too anxious. Anyway, once I relaxed, I had a fabulous time.

We did very little - mostly ate and talked. We also came to a couple of conclusions: next year instead of going out to a dress-up dinner at the country club on Christmas Eve with young children in tow (Missy will hopefully have some then, too), we're going to heat up some strombolis, make a bit salad and watch movies all night. Also, we're going to limit gifts to each other to one, possibly just drawing a name out of a hat and giving that one person and our own SO if we like a gift. All of us have the means to buy what we want and none of us wants more stuff, so excessive gift giving among us really doesn't make much sense. That will take a lot of pressure off.

Another thing I learned is the value of pacifiers. I had sworn up and down that I wouldn't use one. Until I had Evelyn. She needs to suck a lot more than Ragsy ever did. With him, if it wasn't food and he wasn't hungry, he refused to keep it in his mouth. Evelyn will nurse to the point of vomiting when she's stressed, which upsets her even more. Or she'll mistake her stress for hunger, start rooting, then get upset when she nurses too aggressively for simple comfort sucking and gets actual food. Then she'll rear back, shrieking, more upset than before.

Finally my sister went to Target and came back with a pacifier. I was dead set against it until Evelyn lost it for a few hours unless something was in her mouth. We tried it and her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body relaxed and she fell asleep for the first time in hours and hours. As soon as she was under enough, the pacifier fell out and she kept sleeping. She just needed it enough to calm down. So, yeah - pacifiers? Totally worth it. She won't take one unless she's actually upset. Plus, breastfeeding has been solidly established, so I really don't have any reservations about using one in moderation. Once again, I eat my own words.

All in all, a very successful, fun and educational Christmas.

Great. Now what?

Okay. So I've had a baby. But what's next? Despite all my whining, I'm delighted to have Evelyn here. She is so much her own person, just like her big brother. Like Ragsy, it'll be completely fascinating to watch her grow. But, while I was pregnant, there were a lot of things that I set aside for "after the baby is born."

So, I'm making a list of goals that I want to achieve in the next six to 12 months or even longer, not because of the new year, but because a) Evelyn is here and b) I need to actually write these things down and a plan to achieve them, particularly since life just got more hectic, but in a good way.

So far, I have:

Lose 25 pounds. It's great that I already fit into my pre-pregnancy work clothes, but I was planning to lose weight to begin with. I should probably lose more than 25, but that's a good start. And now I have nothing to stop me. Back to Weight Watchers jiggity jig.

Find a new job. I'm bored senseless where I am now. So it's either get used to boredom, make my current job something interesting (not possible unless I take my boss's job), find a new job or make a new job. I think that latter two options are the best and most likely.

Get a financial plan. We have estate planning done, but now we need to figure out how to pay for college for two kids while still being able to retire when we want (when we want not meaning now, even if that really is when we want). I also want to put ourselves on a budget. Just because we have two incomes doesn't mean we need to spend all of both.

Get organized. We live like pigs. Every time someone comes over, you'd think we were in college, cleaning frantically before our parents show up. We can't keep doing this. It's ridiculous. We have to pick up all our crap just to scrub things. It shouldn't be this hard to clean the kitchen or vacuum the floor. And we can't have nice furniture in our bedroom or dining room until we get this clutter under control. Even more, I like having people over, dammit. It's fun.

Find more time for each other. Even before Evelyn was born, we rarely hired a sitter. We need to find one and take advantage of one more regularly.

Find more time for our friends. We both wish we were more social people. We're such hermits we hardly see the friends we do have. It's crazy because we really, really like our friends and every time we see them, we say, "Wow, why don't we do this more often?" The answer is that we perceive ourselves to be busier than we actually are. Okay, with Evelyn maybe that's not necessarily true. Also, our pediatrician said we need to keep her to ourselves for six weeks before we can take her out and about, but even so, it's not like she's not portable. She's easier to cart around than Ragsy (I usually win when I wrestle her).

Write more. I write all the time at work, but it's boring as hell. I need to keep up with my creative writing or I'll keep having this feeling that I'm wasting time.

Enjoy active time with our family. While I was pregnant, I tried really hard to spend a lot of time walking and doing outside stuff with Ragsy. And it was a lot of fun. Plus it's the only reason I fit into my work pants now. I want to make that standard.

Start researching schools. I have no clue what Ragsy will be doing for kindergarten and elementary school. We need to start thinking about it now.

Hmmm... Now for a plan of attack. But first, sleep. Why am I still up when I could be sleeping? Especially with a kid who's not even six weeks old?

Weekend.

This weekend was good. We were really busy and completely disorganized and, much as we hated it, had to turn down an opportunity to spend the evening with friends. Oh, yeah, and I turned the answering machine message indicator back on - my son had turned it off at some point. So if you called on Friday and I didn't get back to you, that's why. We really need to just get our voicemail electronically. It's too easy to screw with an answering machine.

Regardless, my combined total hours of sleep for the weekend was approximately five hours, which made me less than coherent, especially after a busy Saturday and Sunday morning/early afternoon. Hanging out with me would have been a bad idea, or really boring at best.

Getting Evelyn to sleep for her weekend naps wasn't quite as frustrating as it was the weekend before, not because the noise level in the house was any less and not because I was being hunted down less, but maybe because she's getting used to it. Maybe. Every time I make an assumption about this kid she changes, blowing whatever I said completely out of the water. I guess if you're developing that fast, it makes sense.

The best thing about having her, though, is that I'm a lot less resentful than I was when I had Ragsy. Isn't that horrible? But it's true that the first one is a huge shock. The second one makes things exponentially more difficult, but at least I know what to expect or, rather, not to expect (i.e., sleep, personal space, coherent thoughts), so I don't have to deal with as many mental challenges.

I also got to bake cookies with Ragsy, an activity I've been promising but incapable of fulfilling for a couple of weeks now. He loved every minute of it and ate almost an entire batch by himself in under ten minutes. It was kind of disgusting, but I swear I just turned away long enough to get some out of the oven and cut two or three new ones.

What else? I took Ragsy shopping at Ulta to get a gag gift for my sister. He almost knocked down a 10-foot halogen lamp, which, if knocked over, would have taken out several displays and potentially gone through a window. After that it was time to leave.

Other than that, the whole thing was still a blur of get up, nurse, walk walk walk, put baby down and pray to the powers that be that she'll sleep then get in bed and pass out, only to be awakened by Ragsy, who has taken to stripping the covers off me as soon as he gets in because he knows I'll doze off mid-sentence unless I'm cold. Oh, well. Whatever works, right? After that, it was feed everybody and bemoan my lack of personal hygiene.

Now that that's out of the way...

Okay, so I'm posting twice in quick succession. But this post has nothing to do with the previous post and, yes, I'm a dork about separating my subjects. It bothers me when there's no clear delineation, even in those posts where it's just stream of consciousness.

So, the subject of this post - Evelyn, of course. I'm going to freak out about my baby. She woke up this morning smiling her little face off. Every time I looked at her and smiled, she gave me this absolutely huge grin that lit her whole face up. Then she just lay there, kicking her feet and snorting with a huge grin on her face like she was trying to laugh but didn't quite know how.

Just when I'm getting frustrated from being stuck in this chair for marathon feedings and cluster feedings and just as I'm getting broken from so little sleep, she has to go and do something like make my day.

Surely you must be jesting.

And now for something only tangentially baby-related. Okay, probably not so tangential, but anyway... I was just contacted by my former employer for freelance work in case I needed something to do on maternity leave. Huh. Interesting.

I'm intrigued - mostly because, while I do have a bit more free time than I did previously, someone assumes that my brain is working well enough to do freelance work for them at a very high billing rate (because I have no compunction about raking them over the coals). I'm tempted to say yes because it'd be a lot of money doing something I spent years doing, so it'd be second nature. But at the same time, I've got a new baby, am sleeping about 3-4 hours a night on a good night and am right now unable to think of anything beyond a sleep-deprived "Bwuh?" The only coherent thought I've got right now is that I won't talk about it on Facebook. I probably shouldn't talk about it here, either, but my boss doesn't have a link to my blog, but he did friend me on Facebook.

He's a very nice guy, but at the same time, where is that line between friends and employer? Also, his boss friended him, so anything I say there could easily go up the chain to the senior VP of our company and right up to the CEO/owner. Ah, the Age of the Internet, where information is too available and you have to watch your back with your online friends.

Sensitivity my butt.

I've been having more than my usual number of brain farts and senior moments lately, likely induced by Evelyn's interesting choice in sleep patterns. Like an idiot, I had been patting myself on the back for having a baby that slept so well. Now I know better.

Those first few weeks were awesome. Heck, the beginning of this week was pretty good, too. We had a couple of nights where she'd be out for five hours, wake up to nurse, then out for another four. What bliss! But something happened in Evelyn's brain making her more alert during the day (wonderful!), more interactive and generally calmer because now she's interested enough in her surroundings that she wants to hang out and look at them. She's also smiling (it's not gas, dammit!) and cooing, welcome changes from earlier.

But... Her interest in her surroundings is making her more alert. All. The. Time. Unless, of course, someone is holding her or she's sleeping somewhere considered unsafe. I say considered unsafe because I really disagree that sleeping on our bed, particularly while we're not in it is unsafe; however, it's been pounded into me enough by everyone else other than her pediatrician that babies sleeping on the bed = bad, bad parent. Funny, though, that my pediatrician is so accepting of getting babies to sleep however you have to, co-sleeping and sleeping alone in the parents' bed for naps included, but many other people are not. My kid's pediatrician has made me feel good about every single decision I've made so far about my children while others have often been less than supportive. Go figure. I think it's largely cultural. She's from the Middle East where family beds are more common. My husband's family is the same - beds are usually custom-made depending upon the size of the family.

Anyway, Evelyn is also suddenly extremely sensitive to her tactile environment. She refuses to sleep without a hat, will not sleep without a swaddle, a particular blanket has to be placed in a certain location, etc. Unfortunately, what she's "sensitive" to changes every day and only unveils itself after several sleep deprived nights of wondering what the hell is going on. One day it was the hat. Another day we found out about the blanket. A few days ago it was the absence of white noise. Today I figured out that a seam in her bouncinette had been keeping her awake the past day. My opinion? We've given birth to Stewie #2 and she's screwing with me.

Babies, to wake:

Following are some fool-proof instructions on waking a baby. Many of you are likely aware of the following; however, I'm putting together a manual (okay, not really - I'm just strung out on sleep deprivation again). Anyway...

1. Brew a pot of delicious coffee or get whatever your morning crack happens to be. Whatever it is, it has to be hot.
2. Smell your cra... uh, that just sounds wrong. Smell your beverage or food. Doesn't it smell perfect?
3. Sit down and relax. Relaxation is key. It won't work if you're not relaxed.
4. Lift the cup or fork slowly to your lips, breathing deeply.
5. Tilt the cup or slide the food past your lips and...

Hah! Works every time. The above instructions can be adjusted for evenings, particularly mealtimes, or really any other time of day. Keep in mind, they don't work quite as well if you're contemplating something you theoretically could do with a baby in one hand or with the baby present (i.e., bringing a baby in its bouncinette into the shower, drinking a beverage or eating food that won't scald the baby if accidentally spilled or cramming food down your throat while standing up in the presence of a baby, screaming or otherwise).

You've got to be frakking kidding me.

Last night was bad. As in BAD. We haven't had a night quite like last night with Evelyn. Most of it is attributable to her not napping yesterday. The rest? Turns out she's a ridiculously persnickety kid. The not napping was bad, but after I put her down in the evening, she was up every 5-10 minutes unless someone was holding her. It was so bad that we just took turns holding her in the dark while the other finished their dinner around midnight. Finally, we got her to sleep around 1 a.m. and she woke again at 3:30 wanting to be fed. I both nursed her and, because she didn't seem satisfied with me, gave her some expressed milk to tank her up in the hopes she'd get some much-needed rest. I handed her over to my husband, who was apparently up with her until 7:30.

After she was fed this morning, I went to put her down for her nap. She would pass out every time I touched her, but wake immediately when I took my hand away. I was so strung out from sleep deprivation, my internal monologue went something like this:

Okay, okay. So she falls asleep when I touch her head. Okay. I have to figure out how to get something to touch her head all the time. What would do that? What? I could strap a washcloth to her head. No, that might slip and smother her. I need something that starts with the letter H. Um, helmet? Hand? No, no - the point is not having my hand on her all morning. Um... Ham? Wait, what? Oh! I know! A hat! Now where would I get a hat? And so on until I finally located a hat and put it on her. As soon as her ears were covered, her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out for three hours.

Fast forward to just now. She's been sleeping more or less all day as long as she's being held. That's fine. She needs it - we're happy to help her to get her rested enough to sleep well tonight. So, I just went in to put her to sleep after tanking her up again to make sure she's not hungry. I put her down with her hat on, but now she won't sleep unless she has pressure on her chest. Otherwise she becomes a miniature Houdini, managing to escape from even the tightest swaddle. Other than my hand, it took me a while to think of a heavy blanket to put on her and tuck in. But I did, and she's asleep - for now. I wonder what it'll be tomorrow? Sound that bothers her? My very existence? Who knows? All I know is that she is anal as hell.

So much for schedules.

I had worked out a good schedule for weekdays with Evelyn: feeding in the morning followed by her blissed-out morning nap in the bouncinette for about two-ish hours while I eat lunch, shower and work out. Then more food, play for a while, more food and eventually we pass out together with her on my chest in the chair because nursing makes me incredibly sleepy, thanks to all those hormones. I can fight them in the morning, but can't in the afternoon. It doesn't help that Evelyn refuses to sleep anywhere but my chest in the afternoon. Already she has her preferences. Most involve being held by me. So after that, we nurse some more and get Ragsy.

Anyway, the whole point of this post is that, obviously, on weekends schedules go out the window. Mine, my husband's, Ragsy's and Evelyn's. Gone. Evelyn's schedule so far is key, however. But I'm not about to try to explain that to Ragsy because I don't want to create sibling rivalry where it's not necessary. But still... I have never been so tempted to throttle him as I was today. Every time I would get Evelyn almost down for her morning nap (eyes drooping, mouth starting to go slack), he would hunt me down and bellow something along the lines of, "See my train, mommy! Come see!" Evelyn's eyes would snap wide open like a doll's, creating yet another half hour of put-down time, which was unfortunate because Ragsy had asked to decorate the tree with me and my husband while Evelyn slept. Well, guess who never slept? Well, until now, of course, when she's in her afternoon nap mode and apparently must sleep on my chest. Grrr.

I even tried hiding in the basement. I was successful until I got into the bedroom. Just as I was leaning down to put Evelyn to bed, a madly giggling Ragsy rocketed by, waking Evelyn up. Again. So we've been tag-team parenting all day. Tag-team parenting meaning me putting Evelyn down and running out to spend time with Ragsy and my husband, then my spidey senses tingling only to have to pick Evelyn up yet again, put her down, rinse, repeat because Evelyn refuses to let anyone but me get in a 10-foot radius because she's so tired since she missed her morning nap.

Anyway, at least we finally got lunch. At about 3 p.m. I crammed a tuna sandwich down in about 10 minutes while nursing Evelyn and trying not to create a fishy-smelling baby. She's been permanently attached to my breast lately when she's not sleeping, unless I get really tired when I hand my husband a bottle of my stash and pass out.

Oh, well. The Christmas tree is up and Ragsy got to spend time with me. And to my shock, my husband managed to make box-mix cinnamon muffins by himself without asking me any questions, even, "What should we have?"! This is exciting because it has never happened before in our 8 years of living together. Even takeout has been preceded by multiple questions about what we should have, when we should have it and what method we'll use to get it. This was just...awesome.

Snarl.

It sounds like a lot of people had a crappy evening yesterday. Unfortunately, I was no exception. And, as usual, I'm prepared to vent. The day started out with me getting about an hour and a half of sleep. Then I had to drag Evelyn along with me to get a blood test, during which she shrieked most of the time unless I was holding her car seat and swinging it back and forth. When I had to pick up Ragsy at preschool, Evelyn in tow in her seat (apparently I'm still only supposed to lift 8-12 pounds; yeah, right - what idiot came up with that rule, especially when paternity leave doesn't exist in the U.S.?), Ragsy decided that it'd be a good time to start running down the sidewalk in the freezing cold. Normally I'm pretty calm, even during discipline. Today was not one of those days. I had to put Evelyn down briefly (protected from the wind only by a blanket), run after my kid whose hysterical laughter turned quickly to screams when I grabbed him by the arm, tucked him under one arm and picked up the car seat, hauling everyone to the car. It's not easy to get a screaming kid into the car while carrying a car seat in the other hand. I managed.

So, we got home. My husband forgot to call and tell me he would be late, so I was stuck again, with a starving infant at the breast while I hurried around to get easy-to-make food for a starving preschooler, not easy given that we were so out of staples we didn't even have bread, eggs or milk. Finally, everyone was fed, my husband got home and helped with Evelyn while I took care of Ragsy, who began shrieking while brushing his teeth because he was taking too long and I finally decided to put an end to it (yes, I know you're not supposed to hurry a kid, but I'm sure anyone would agree that 20 minutes to rinse one's mouth out is way too long). That wasn't received well.

Anyway, finally everyone got to bed, Evelyn included. It was 9:30 and time to go to the grocery. I got home around 10:30 and on the way received a voicemail from my husband, Evelyn shrieking in the background, who was apparently irate that I hadn't answered (I hadn't felt it vibrate even though it was in my back pocket). I got home and was snarled at, handed the kid who immediately calmed, then my husband unpacked the groceries. Finally, Evelyn was done nursing around 11:30 or 12 and it was time for me to get some dinner. I didn't want to bother, but I hadn't eaten since 11 a.m. The whole time this was going on, there was some palpable tension in the room with both of us mad at each other, and mad that the other was mad.

Finally, after my delicious bowl of cereal, we decided to go to bed. Of course, newborns being what they are, Evelyn chose the moment my head finally hit the pillow to wake up and begin shrieking. She was immediately handed to me. What did I do? I began to cry, of course. I guess the sleep deprivation had really gotten to me. My husband kept demanding to know what he should do. How the heck would I know? I'm hysterical! Finally, he took her and paced around our bedroom while she screamed - sometimes I think he does that deliberately so I'll take her - until I couldn't take it anymore and took her back. What did I do? I began crying again. That's the only logical thing to do, right? Finally, I decided that he'd change her and feed her a bottle of expressed milk because she usually nurses for at least an hour and I just didn't think I could take staying up until 2 or 3 a.m. My husband got a bottle and took over - not nicely; he decided to storm out of the room to get the bottle - and, since something was in her mouth, she quieted. I passed out.

I woke up and all was better. Of course, Ragsy was back in bed with us (Humpty Dumpty made yet another appearance - sometimes I wish he were afraid of monsters instead), but Evelyn, once fed well, often sleeps for 5+ hours, so I woke up at 7 a.m. when Ragsy grabbed my nose. Yes, he likes to hold my nose. Today is much, much better so far. It seems that Evelyn's growth spurt and the marathon nursing sessions associated with it have slowed down and my husband and I aren't mad anymore. And, even though it's not a habit we'd like to encourage, Ragsy is in a good mood from sleeping with us. Now I plan to get a workout, shower and eat lunch. A pipe dream? Absolutely. I've got to try anyway.

Which came first?

It occurred to me as I was getting out of the shower that nursing bras very closely resemble cut-out bras that you'd normally get at sex shops and Fredrick's of Hollywood. So I'm wondering which came first - the nursing bra or the cut out? I'm guessing it's the latter rather than the former. People tend to be much more interested in boobs for sex's sake rather than functionality, though I guess there is a nursing fetish (don't ask how I know - I don't want to go into it; let's just say I know and I've been scarred).

Anyway, I obviously have too much time in my head on my hands. I've been watching almost as much television as my mother typically does and nursing about 6-7 hours a day, giving me ridiculous amounts of time to think of this stuff. Yikes - Evelyn is waking up again. I just got her off the breast long enough to get some food. Too bad I wasted that time eating croutons and a handful of chocolate chips for lunch. Something tells me I need to plan some meals and get to the grocery - not easy with a kid on a growth spurt. Good thing I found my sling. Maybe we can even eat as a family one night this week.

Another day, another... well, another day.

I'm pretty dull at the moment, in two senses: I'm boring and I'm brain dead. Boring because I need to start reading news and actually doing stuff. Brain dead because it was another night of congestion. So, we found ourselves at 4 a.m., in a super steamy bathroom, bulb syringe in hand, baby in the other. What was really freaky was that she didn't struggle at all - she just laid there and allowed my husband to suction her. However, when I did it this afternoon, she screamed bloody murder. She's daddy's girl already.

I should feel rested, though, considering I got a whopping four hours of sleep tonight versus the hour I got the other day. Whatever. I guess this is something that just comes with the territory, especially when one kid is in pre-school.

I would've gotten two more hours of sleep had our son not shown up in our room at 4, letting me know that Humpty Dumpty was there and that he was scared of him. So, I went in to tell Humpty Dumpty to go away. That worked for all of 15 minutes. So I had to go threaten Humpty Dumpty with time out. That lasted 5 minutes. Once again, a demand for Humpty Dumpty to sod off. Finally, we caved and let Ragsy get into bed with us. By then it was 5 and Evelyn was waking up (thanks to our efforts to get Humpty Dumpty to leave), so the idea of sleep was basically a pipe dream.

Oh, well. Right now I'm sitting here, looking forward to the possible visit of a friend and listening to Evelyn start to wake up even though I walked her down for more than an hour and put her down maybe a half hour ago. There's just no sleep return on investment with this kid.

A mystery explained.

Last night it took me about an hour to get my daughter back to sleep after one of her marathon feeding sessions. I was getting really frustrated. Full stomach? Check. Dark room? Check. Limited interaction? Check. Dry butt? Check and check. What the heck was wrong?

Finally I decided it was time to leave the room and slowly swayed down the hall, holding her in the newborn straight jacket (a ridiculously tight swaddle - she's very strong). As I went down the hall, her eyelids immediately began to droop. By the time I reached the kitchen (maybe she wasn't so full), her eyes were rolling back in her head in an effort to remain conscious. By the time I'd reached the fridge, she was out and grinning in her sleep. So I slowly began working my way down the hall again. By the time I got to the really dark part outside our room, she began to scream. She's surely not old enough to be afraid of the dark, I thought.

So I turned around and walked away again. Again, she dropped off. Again, I began working my way toward the bedroom. And again she woke up and began screaming. So I decided to test a theory. I went to the end of the hall, walked back. Fall asleep, scream. I repeated a few times with the same results. What about our room was bothering her?

Then I heard a particularly loud snort and snore coming from the bedroom, followed by the sound of a buzz saw, otherwise known as my husband. Aha! Mystery solved. So I went to the family room and sat until she was fully asleep, then brought her into the bedroom during a break in the racket. Success! And she woke just once at 5 and she's still asleep. I guess I'll have to poke her soon, but first I'll enjoy a cup of coffee.

Narcolepsy.

I have newborn narcolepsy. I was lying in bed with my son this morning (he came in to snuggle) and he asked me to tell him the end of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, which we'd stopped last night because he was so wired he couldn't lie still.

Anyway, this morning I kept trailing off and falling asleep in the middle of sentences. He'd then wake me up to remind me that I'd promised to tell him the rest, only to have me doze off mid-sentence again. Poor kid. I'm going to offer to do it again tonight when I get him from pre-school. Hopefully I won't fall asleep mid-story this time.

Talking on maternity leave.

I forgot how many people call you "just to chat" when you're on maternity leave. I wish I liked talking on the phone more, because then I wouldn't mind that my mother, my brother-in-law and a few other family members have apparently determined that I'm not doing anything and would therefore like to spend an hour on the phone.

Okay, so the first part of that is true - I'm really not doing much. I've got Evelyn on my chest and obviously enough time to write two blog posts in one day. But still... My brother-in-law has called me twice (I've been screening) to tell me something "important," which means that Target has an electronics sale. My mom has called me asking me to call her back as soon as possible, again related to a retail purchase.

Now that's multitasking.

This whole post is going to be pretty much stream of consciousness. I've been watching too much TV. Anyway, I think I've finally joined the ranks of women who can do other stuff while breastfeeding. Last night, I found myself herding Ragsy around the house with Evelyn at the breast and talking to my husband on the phone (he was late getting home from work and has finally been trained enough to call me if he'll be late). I was stupidly proud of myself, even though I don't generally like talking on the phone while Ragsy's around.

Anyway, now I'm typing with a baby on my chest because my brain is rotting from the amount of TV I've been watching while parked in this chair. I've seen a movie, watched an episode of the Haunting and now, for some incomprehensible reason, I'm watching My Super Sweet 16. This must end.

Other than that, I had a temporary freak out today. This kid slept through the night last night, then took a three-hour nap this morning from which I could not wake her, even with diaper changes, clothing changes and generally pestering her. It was bad enough I actually called the doctor, who called me back and told me, "I think you just have a good baby. Most people would kill for a kid like that, but people who have them can't believe it - it makes them nervous instead. Enjoy it and feel free to call me if you still have questions." I love our pediatrician. Ok. I'm off. Evelyn reeks.

Happy Thanksgiving!

We celebrated our Thanksgiving on Tuesday, which created a surprisingly low-stress holiday, except managing my mom, who always gets very tense over holidays (even though my sister and I take care of the cooking and cleaning). But that's neither here nor there - there's a lot to be thankful for. After all, she was good enough to spend an entire month with us helping us with our pre-schooler and then our newborn.

I won't go through the list of things I'm thankful for - that'd take forever. Suffice to say that life is good and my complaints in comparison are pretty petty and lame.

I don't know many people who get a brand new baby for their birthday, and today we get her all to ourselves. And next week, she's mine - all mine! With Ragsy, I was terrified to be left alone. This time, I'm a little confounded as to how I'll stimulate this baby until I can take her more places (she's ridiculously alert), but at least I don't want to beg my husband not to leave. I'm sure I'll think of something.

Oh, well. Speaking of stimulation - I've let Ragsy watch way too much TV already this morning in celebration of regaining control of our remote (no more daytime TV - yay!). Time to turn it off, feed him and poke Evelyn awake for her breakfast. It's great that she sleeps so well, but it can take up to an hour to wake her - like her dad, she's pokey waking and pokey eating.

I should have expected that

There are several things I expected from having another kid: dealing with a certain amount of pain initially, exhaustion (especially at the start), defiance from my current kid. What I stupidly didn't expect was the complete lack of privacy I've experienced in the last few days. Not only has my husband and my mother (who refers to women who breastfeed as "those" people or "mother earth") seen me sit around topless trying to figure out the best way to get as much boob as possible into another human being's mouth and not only has my three-year old become intrigued with the fact that someone else is getting all their food from my chest, people keep freaking walking in on me while I'm pumping. No amount of door locking, telling people to leave me alone for just 15 minutes or outright hiding seems to do the trick.

I'm pumping because I seem to have a bit of a supply issue. I just can't keep up with this girl's appetite. So I pump and I pump and I pump some more. When I'm not pumping, I'm breastfeeding. I don't really mind people seeing me breastfeed so much, but must my family really see me hooked up to a contraption that's so similar to what they use on cows?

Never wake a sleeping baby?

I have a conundrum: every bit of wisdom I've received from lactation consultants says to get your kid up for feedings at least every 3 hours, even if it's the middle of the night, regardless of how deeply they're asleep. Four hours is apparently the absolute outer limit. However, I've also read articles that you should never wake a sleeping baby, especially one in the middle of a growth spurt because when they're asleep their body is releasing the hormones they need to grow (most of which happens while they're unconscious). So far, I'm going for the latter since she'll nurse for three hours at a time. It seems silly if she's already actively eaten for so long to drag her awake and force her to the breast, particularly when it can take up to an hour to get her fully awake and ready to eat.

Hmmm... So, never wake a sleeping baby or wake her up for a feeding? I've never, ever had a good sleeper, especially at such a young age, so this is completely new territory to me. While we were at the hospital, she'd wake every 3 or 4 hours at night, waking a bit more frequently during the day. Now, she's awake and eating most of the time (or sleeping on the breast and eating) and sleeps 5 hours a night starting 1 a.m. or 2 a.m., which is almost a full night. We're taking her in Monday to make sure she's gaining weight appropriately. I guess that'll tell us if we're doing the right thing or not. She has long periods of quiet wakefulness where she just hangs out and takes in the world. It's awesome. Again, I have no experience with a newborn who's actually happy and alert but not shrieking.

By the way, I'm hoping not to make this blog all about my children. Believe it or not, I plan to write something that's of interest to someone other than me. However, this is really all I can think about now, and probably will be for several weeks until we settle into a pattern. Then I'll be complaining that she's broken her pattern. So there.

On the subject of boobs...

I'm sure you expected this, but I'm going to talk about breastfeeding. Since this blog is all about me (you knew that when you found it), it'll be about my experiences with it. I know she's only six days old, and I have no expectation that any pattern she gets into will be one she continues, but... For the last two days, Evelyn had been nursing for two hours at a stretch, almost every single time she nursed. Yesterday I spent a total of eight or ten hours nursing. The previous day was even more because those two-hour periods were interspersed with shorter cluster feeds. Having never breastfed exclusively before, I never realized what a total drain it is. Yeah, I got sleepy with Ragsy, but I didn't feel like I'd been fed off of by a vampire. Thank God for lactation consultants.

I had been concerned that I was having a latching issue, but apparently the issue was that she had lost enough weight after birth that she was making up for lost time and just needs to become more efficient. Today was a vast improvement - she spent an hour at a stretch, but that's a heck of a lot more doable than two, particularly given that her nursing sessions were interspersed with an hour of naptime and quiet wakefulness where she lay fascinated by the patterns of sunlight and shadow on the walls. So, basically textbook breastfed baby behavior. I can handle that. And so can my boobs. Ta-dah!

Number Two

If you haven't heard already, kid #2 is here. Evelyn was born November 13 at 4:58 a.m. She was 7.7 pounds and 20 inches long. I couldn't be more excited. The kid already has a distinct personality - she's a LOT like Ragsy so far. Unlike Ragsy, she was born after just over five hours of hard labor. I began having really strong contractions on the night of my birthday. Finally at 11:43, I threw in the towel and called the doctor, who suggested I go in for evaluation, saying it might just be showtime. And it was.

There was actually a very funny part of the whole evening: apparently the bed I was laboring on had a bubble in the lumbar area. I couldn't tell - I was 8 cm dilated and had not yet had an epidural. So, here I am, in just a hospital gown, with two nurses banging on this bubble in the middle of the bed, bouncing me up and down. After a while, they found the janitor, who came in to try to fix it. Then the woman who's in charge of facilities came in and she tried to fix it. So everyone's staring at my naked bum while I'm bouncing up and down because everyone's trying to press the bubble and is moving the bed up and down.

Finally, everyone left, I got some pain medication (which conveniently wore off while I was pushing - that really burned) and managed to get Evelyn out about an hour later after just five minutes of pushing.

This whole experience (despite being seen by an audience and despite the pain meds wearing off) was just awesome. No seizures, minimal elevation in blood pressure, and a fast, fast, fast labor, topped off by the birth of a beautiful and somewhat curmudgeony little girl. You can't get any better than that.

Something chocolately, something blue...

My birthday has not sucked. I don't know if it's luck or what, but today was actually kinda good. My son woke up happy and told me I was pretty and said he thought I was great. My husband got up with both of us, so we all got time together and I got a hand in the morning ritual, which is almost unheard of.

My mom got up shortly after and was also in a good mood. I got to work on time for a change, to find a decorated cube. I went to the doctor to find that I'm 4 cm dilated (how does one do that and not go into labor? Aren't I supposed to have a baby by now? I've had contractions all day, but anyway...). By this time last time I was nearly screaming in pain. I'm almost enjoying the mild discomfort in comparison.

The sun shone all day. I got home with a cake with blue icing and my son began to dance and sing like I'd just handed him a piece of the sky. We had cake and the night was topped off by one of the best things ever - this quiet time I'm enjoying right now. Even better, I'm enjoying it with minimal contractions. You know how sometimes internal exams can trigger contractions? I had had them from about 11:30 until I began lounging on my left side to de-puff my feet. I'm finally, finally comfortable for the first time in nearly 6 hours. And tomorrow is my last day at work until I'm back from leave.

I'm not sure how today could be better. Talk about the little things: family, friends, absence of pain and quiet.

Oh, crap. Another contraction. That one actually hurt. Well, three out of four ain't bad.

Did I just bake my own cake? Again?

I've gotten into the habit of baking my own birthday cake. It may make me a control freak, but I've found that that's the best way to ensure I get what I want, which this year was a rich, chocolatey, gooey dessert capable of being warmed and served with ice cream. So I made brownies with chocolate ganache.

I got into this habit when it became clear that, unless given a very compelling reason not to do so, my mom will visit every single year. And every single year, she will make me a birthday cake that she says is my favorite but is generally something she's been hankering for for a while. It doesn't bother me - it's one of her quirks. Kind of like ignoring what I say and pretending I didn't tell her that I'd already ordered a blue cake for my son and instead going out to buy cupcakes with blue icing like she did today. Oh, well. The more blue icing the better, I guess. Some of the cake or cup cakes can be shared with pre-school when the baby is born.

Though I guess the birth of this baby means that I will never, ever have another mom-free birthday again unless I leave the country. Ah, well. That can be arranged.

I've been complaining too much about my mom lately. I'm glad she's here. She's been picking Ragsy up from pre-school every evening and generally handling dinners, which I certainly can't complain about. And unlike my husband, she also cleans. It's a huge load off my shoulders and I know that, once the baby comes, I'll appreciate it even more. So, when I complain about things like cakes and table manners (she keeps demanding my son get his elbows off the table and wait to start his meal until others are served - given that he's 3, he's not too keen on waiting) I'll have to at least temper it if not shut up entirely since she's helping incredibly.

It's not news, it's me.

I just had an entire discussion with my mom about her best friend's arm pits. Ugh. I won't go into the nitty gritty, but I can tell you that boils were involved and I feel violated and dirty now.

How's that for news?

Now that I've grossed you out, I have good news - they're not going to induce me until next Tuesday. Why on earth they're going to induce me the day before my due date is beyond me, but I assume it has something to do with a combination of scheduling and wanting me to carry as long as possible. I must admit to being disappointed. I was looking forward to not being pregnant sooner rather than later; however, I like that nature's being allowed to take its course longer than originally planned.

In other news, well... I have no other news. Just someone else's arm pits. Sorry 'bout that.

Kid = divining rod.

Have you ever noticed how freaking intuitive kids are? I mean, seriously - Ragsy has always been like a dousing rod for my emotions, but it seems like the more contractions I have, the more drawn to my lap he is. It's amazing. I feel like I'm being turned inside out from the nether regions up (oh, did I forget the too-much-information warning?) with each hardening of my uterus and tightening of my back and almost every time it happens unless it's late at night or at my desk at work, I wind up with a kid perched on my lap, leaning back and putting pressure against my very large, low stomach, demanding that I help put shoes on or assist in some other task that involves leaning over a gargantuan boulder that happens to be lodged in the middle of my gut. Scary.

Birthdays.

My birthday is coming up this Thursday. Don't worry - I'm not fishing for gifts. In fact, that's one of the problems I'm having: my husband and mom are pestering me to tell them what I want. So far, I've come up with the following things that I would really love from my husband:

1. A birthday cake with blue icing for Ragsy
2. Something chocolately and hot for me with vanilla ice cream
3. Time - time to take a workout class, if only for once a week, at the Y after I've recovered from childbirth and the baby is about 3 months old or older
4. Help - someone to help us keep the house tidy once or twice a week, backing off to once a week to every two weeks after we've gotten into a routine

I suspect I'll get 1 and 2, but my husband is confused by 3 and 4. Ah, well. We'll see. My birthdays don't mean nearly as much to me as they used to. My last truly wonderful birthday was when I was 30, just before Ragsy was born. Adit threw me a surprise party at a friend's house. Actually, that was the best birthday I've ever had. Subsequent birthdays were more trouble than they were really worth - you know, when you feel obligated to have fun because it's your birthday, but you have other things on your mind, such as a sick kid, crying kid, a parent who insists on visiting every birthday, preventing you from doing anything other than what she chooses.

Last year, I wound up dealing with a two-hour tantrum, being late for work, falling in the parking lot once I managed to get to work, then spilling coffee all over my already-wet pants and having to do my work standing up until my pants dried, only to go home to have to make dinner and get into an argument with my mom (who was visiting) when she said something particularly thoughtless to me. So at this point, I'd settle for tolerable. But most wonderful of all would be me having a new baby. I'm not convinced this thing is ever coming out, and I can't wait to meet him or her. Earlier I didn't want to share my birthday with someone else, but I think that would be nice. Knowing how much I enjoy how Ragsy reacts when I do something special for him, no matter how small it is (like him dancing for joy the first time I took him to a bakery), if I could have that on my birthday most years, or even have a year of firsts every year, that'd be enough.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record...

Will these freaking contractions ever end?!? For two weeks, I've been awakened occasionally to anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours of contractions, then...nothing. Then yesterday afternoon, I woke at 5:30 a.m., had two hours of contractions, which went away, then had another two hours in the middle of the day and they were 7-10 minutes apart. Thankfully I was at my OB's office, so they checked me and not much progress.

The good news - I should have a new baby in my arms by the end of next week. The bad news - because my mom has never had Braxton-Hicks contractions and both her labors were well under 6 hours from her very first contraction, she keeps telling me that I've "read too much" and acting as though I'm making this stuff up. She also told me that she really doesn't care to hear more - she was just being nice. Wow. That's super supportive. Regardless, she's been helpful so far with Ragsy, so my worst nightmares have yet to come true. If this is the biggest complaint and no life-threatening complications pop up, I think I'm doing pretty well.

Still, I'm tired, irritated and may have to be induced, which wasn't really what I was wanting, but I understand why they'd recommend doing it. But that's contingent upon me making it through the weekend.

Urgh. My legs, hips and butt hurt like I've been doing squats and my gut feels like I've been doing crunches for days. Probably because, in a sense, I have.

CRRRRUUUUNNNNCH!

This rant brought to you by the letter H (for help me not hurt someone) and the number 2.

Getting to sleep will be interesting tonight.

Today was great. I got to keep my promise to Ragsy and watched him in his Halloween parade. He was so proud of himself, but he's completely keyed up. He's still laying in bed singing pirate shanties (he's moved on from one of the dirtier one to a man with a monkey named Scurvy Pete) and will probably be up at 2 a.m. - again - demanding to put on his pirate costume. Just like last night.

After the Halloween parade, it was time for my doctor's appointment. I swear, those internal exams drive me nuts. I've been having contractions ever since, right on top of each other. They're not painful, but good grief, they're irritating. I never realized how uncomfortable it was to laugh and have a contraction at the same time until this evening. It's like trying to giggle around a rock. I should enjoy it - my stomach will never be this hard again.

Is it normal?

Am I a horrible person for being slightly uneasy about having a new baby in the house? Yes, yes - if you felt that way, you shouldn't have gotten pregnant. But seriously, it definitely is the end of an era and I can't help feeling both extremely joyful that we're about to welcome a whole new person into the world, but at the same time a little melancholy that Ragsy will no longer be our only child and a little uneasy about all the things that having a second will impact.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't change a thing. Well, except the complications with Ragsy. But, as I was lying in bed last night, I began having some really fierce contractions. They were painful enough to wake me up and lasted for about two hours and the only reason I didn't call the doctors' exchange was because they went away whenever I laid on my left side, so I think it was a nerve issue combined with working out last night (I think I pulled something in my butt because I was limping today). Unfortunately, I'm far more stopped up when I lay on my left side, so I was up rolling around and giving myself more contractions while I tried to find a comfortable spot.

Anyway, as I was laying there having contractions, I was thinking, "No, no, no! Not yet! Not yet! I'm not ready!" as if my opinion mattered in this. Then this afternoon, during one of the many times it felt like the baby was just going to drop out of me, I would find myself thinking again, "Not yet. Just a little longer, please..."

I think I felt this way with Ragsy, too, but was so focused on the post-labor complications that I forgot how unsure you can feel right before having another kid. You know you'll love the kid come hell or high water - that's your job. And you'll take care of him or her because that's what you do. But all of a sudden, it's becoming very real that you're actually about to bring forth another person you'll be responsible for and you know even more than you did the first time around, enough to realize that nothing about it is going to be easy.

That includes all the emotions you'll experience (post-partum nuttiness, PPD or not; the absolute terror you feel when they first get sick; that freaked out feeling when they first sleep more than two hours at a time; the frustration and guilt as they get older; and much, much more), all the sleep deprivation - the whole package - and a lot of other stuff you probably didn't think about. Parenting makes labor seem easy.

The worst part of this is I don't know how it'll affect the way I parent Ragsy. Will it make me worse? Better? The same? And what about how I parent this other kid? Will he or she feel hosed? What happens to my marriage? Having a kid was the hardest thing on our relationship; now we'll have two. Will I completely lose my sanity? I mean, I thought about all this beforehand, but now it's about to happen and... God, I really hope I don't screw this up.

Mealtime.

It's stupid the things you worry about when your parents visit. My mom will be arriving (again) next week to help us out with Ragsy while I'm in labor and afterward. We decided that she might as well stay until Thanksgiving, which is going to be a ridiculously long visit.

What's strange is that the part of the visit that bothers me most is mealtimes. Actually, maybe that's not so strange given how much mental energy my mom expends on cooking, and therefore requires me to spend on cooking. My mom was brought up in a household where kids ate early, went to bed, then adults ate a full dinner afterward. She brought us up the same way until we were in high school, when we all ate in separate rooms in front of our separate televisions. I'm sure it's obvious we didn't really bond as a family until we were well away from each other.

Every single time she visits, mealtime for adults occurs no earlier than 8:30, but usually around 9. This annoys me immensely and I never realize how important that time is to me until she's here and I don't get it anymore. It's not necessarily because I'm starving before then (though I often am), but because a) I think that mealtime is an important time to connect with your family and b) I hate having to fiddle with two mealtimes. It's inconvenient because it's a lot of work and forces you to stay up later than you might have otherwise. And c) I loathe going to bed on a full stomach. If I eat that late, I wake up still feeling full, which is code for slightly nauseated because I'm not supposed to have food still in my stomach by the time I wake up. Oh, and it doesn't help that Ragsy still wakes up at 6:30 to announce to us that it's daytime (no, really, it's not daytime at 6:30 anymore, but potato, po-tah-to).

Oh, well. Since having Ragsy, I've become a definite creature of habit. Having my routine thrown off for a prolonged period irritates me, so in a way I've become as reliant on our evening routine as our son has. Weird. Now I throw tantrums, too, when my routine is messed up.

I probably shouldn't have done that.

I just ate way too many cookies. Waaay too many. In fact, I ate so many, I'm not sure how many I ate. And I'm not even full. Yikes.

Ah, well. All is not lost. Ragsy took me and my husband on an hour-long jaunt in the park, so at least I'd already burned off some cookies by the time I ate them. My husband has never believed me about Ragsy's predilection toward running. I'm not sure why, since he's actually seen our kid in motion before. I felt really vindicated when my husband came gasping up to me saying, "Oh, God. He's still going." Luckily I didn't have to run after him this time - I got a nice, sedate stroll in. I was afraid that if I bounced around too much, my water would break. After my doctor's appointment Thursday, that might be a fairly valid fear.

With that in mind, my goal (not that I really get to have one when talking about labor) is to get this kid to stay put until a week from Tuesday. It'll be win-win all around: the kid will have an extra week and a half to bake, my mom will be in town so I don't have to impose on a friend and I'll get to see Ragsy in his Halloween parade at pre-school, take him trick-or-treating for the first time and enjoy a last party before D-Day. Now if I can just get these pesky contractions to stop. What is it with these impatient babies?

Four weeks and counting...

Well, since my due date is November 18, I guess that means I technically have slightly fewer than four weeks. However long I have, now that I'm getting closer to labor, I can't hide from myself anymore. I am terrified, sometimes so much it makes me a little nauseated. Funny how that works, isn't it? Stupid that I'd be scared of something I can't control or prevent.

At odd moments, I remind myself: the chances of it recurring again are very, very low. And if it does, the chances of actually dying are even lower than recurrence. If it happens again, there probably won't have any brain damage, even. The likelihood of the baby being injured is even lower than me being injured, which is certainly something.

Were my husband and I totally selfish to decide to have another kid? Probably - it's hard to tell until after labor. Stupid? Again, hard to tell until after labor. Just knowing that doesn't make it any easier to mentally prepare myself for labor. I remember getting ready to have Ragsy, thinking that I didn't need to worry about complications because they couldn't happen to me. After all, eclampsia is supposed to happen to less than a percent or two of the population. Then I had it and, well, I always manage to prove myself wrong in the most drastic ways. Hopefully I prove my fears unfounded in as drastic a manner as I proved myself wrong when I had Ragsy.

Just like Ragsy was worth every damn minute of that 32-hour labor and two and a half weeks of migraine, this new baby will be worth it. I know that. I saw it blink today on the ultrasound. It has a face now, one that I can see. I can't tell if it has chubby cheeks because it's so scrunched up against my cervix or because it actually has chubby cheeks. Will it have Ragsy's dimples? That sweet little divot in the chin that I love to kiss? What other defining, unique features will it have? I guess I have to keep my eye on the prize, even if that prize is another 32-hours away from onset of labor.

Hello, darkness, my old friend.

I hate that it's now dark when I wake up. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Plus, my son has begun to wake up in the middle of the night again. On the bright side, he's waking up because he feels the urge to pee, not because of continued sleep issues. Unfortunately, he wakes up after he's peed, but it's a sure step in the right direction. Too bad he wants to play after I've cleaned him up. When he woke up this morning at 3:30, once he was clean again, he insisted it was daytime and therefore time to get a pirate costume. Right.

Thanks to a combination of getting kicked, my son singing to himself rather loudly next door and general discomfort, I didn't fall asleep again until almost 5, about an hour before my alarm went off. Then I got up in the dark - again - while everyone else was asleep.

The crummy, wet, gloomy weather isn't helping, either. And I need to rip my tomato plants out and mow the lawn and rake our leaves off the neighbor's lawn and do a zillion other things to get ready for the fall - oh, yeah, and there's the small matter of having that baby - and it's dark and raining all the freaking time. Grrr...

At least I have a changing area together for the baby. That's a step in the right direction. Now if I can get myself on the treadmill tomorrow in addition to the 30 minutes during the day that I force myself to walk in the parking lot at work, I'll be golden.

What's on the menu?

My cooking frenzy is off to a good start this Sunday. So far, I've managed two firsts: stew (inspired by a friend's comment on Facebook) and chicken fricassee. Like I said, I've never made either before. I don't know about the stew yet - apparently it's supposed to cook in the slow cooker for eight hours - but the fricassee turned out really well. I mean, the stuff is falling off the bone. I think this is the first time I've ever cooked bone-in chicken on my own that wasn't a roast chicken.

I'm a food snob. Usually if it's not super-spicy to the point where my lips burn for several minutes after the meal or if the dish doesn't have really bold flavors, I don't bother with it. Any form of subtlety tends to be lost on me. It doesn't help that traditional food really isn't my forte. Much like rice krispies treats, which to most are the easiest thing in the world but somehow I manage to burn every time, when I make something that has roots west of India or north of Mexico, it turns out...funky.

Maybe my taste buds have been burned off with all that Indian food. But, since Ragsy's getting to the point where we really can't feed him quesadillas for even half his dinners with us and I keep forgetting to take the spice out of our standard Indian fare, I thought that combining something a little more traditional with our usual would be a good idea. And so far, I've been really pleased. And I'm realizing that I left a lot behind when I cut out the more traditional fare.

So, this week's menu is a choice between beef stew, chicken fricassee, aloo matar (spicy tomato & potato curry) and rava uppuma (a spicy South Indian semolina dish loaded with vegetables and three kids of chili). If I get really brave, I might even try a casserole again.

That's a new one.

Everyone has gone back to their corners today. Probably because there was no time for anyone to get on anyone else's nerves this morning. I can't wait until these blasted fans are turned off and my mom is gone. Other than that, things are better today.

Mom went with me this morning to fetal monitoring. One thing I often do while there is give the baby a little nudge to move things along. Unfortunately, my plan backfired today. The baby wouldn't stop moving long enough for them to get a baseline reading of its heartbeat, so I was there for an hour. Foiled again.

Oh, well. We were out of there shortly after (after the ultrasound, that is) and got to go to lunch. Now we're stuck in this hot, loud house and we can't open any doors or windows because it's supposed to be as dry in here as possible to make sure the carpets and the pads underneath them get dried. I get to escape in about 20 minutes, though, when I go to my perinatologist.

I'm looking forward to that - I can't even go to the bathroom without my mom asking what I'm up to. Yikes.

I hate just about everything and everyone right now.

It's official - I'm going to murder someone. My mother and my husband are subtly "disagreeing," which means my mom is making obnoxious, thoughtless comments and I'm getting flack from both sides. My mom doesn't understand why her efforts to "help" are falling on deaf ears. My husband becomes more livid every time she opens her mouth. I'm the only one watching the kid here, who is understandably upset because he knows I'm frustrated and, despite my best efforts, it's spilled over. Every damn person in this household is following me around, too, talking, talking, talking. In fact, I've just managed to disengage from my son (who's not sleeping, though God knows why since he was up half the night thanks to the fans), only to be followed into my bedroom by my mother. Twice. Luckily, she's informed me that she's leaving, but my husband, who left to get a hair cut, just got back. Oh, great flipping joy.

Why the hell can't anyone shut up? Or at least just go the hell away from me? Or maybe just stop complaining so I don't have to feel like some sort of referee?

Yes, yes...poor me. Another person will be following me around in a little while, but dammit, at least that little person won't be able to talk for a while.

Does your carpet splash?

Because mine does. I thought that having to take my husband to the ER was a fluke (he's fine by the way, though we had a scare). Then when Ragsy's daycare caught fire and was closed all week, I became suspicious. Now I'm certain of it. The world is laughing at me. Hard.

Today we had a handyman install a new in-line water filter for us. A simple enough job - it only took him 45 minutes. We just hadn't had the time to do it ourselves and didn't see us making it a priority, so we decided to have someone else do it. So, he completed the job, I wrote the check and we went to lunch.

We got back about an hour to an hour and a half later. The first thing we heard on returning was the sound of water gushing. Water is not supposed to gush unless the faucet is on. We don't generally leave the faucet on when we're leaving. And even when the faucet is on, it's not supposed to gush from two places at once in the house. So, I ran into the kitchen directly into about a quarter inch of water. I could have floated a boat.

So, after I found the valve and turned it off, we immediately began mopping up the mess. As I was running down the stairs, though, there was more water gushing. Oh, holy hell. The ceiling. Water was pouring out a vent and through all the electrical fixtures in the basement ceiling, flooding the carpet in not just one, but three rooms and most of the hall downstairs. And the closet.

So we called the handyman back, someone came over and it was determined that the filter was incorrectly constructed and must have popped off due to water pressure, spewing water everywhere. They're going to fix it anyway and get settlement from the manufacturer (by the way, don't buy an aquasana filter unless you want to be able to float a boat in your kitchen), but we still have four or five fans going 24/7 for the next five to seven days. And the cats are living in the garage since my mom's here in the baby's room. Luckily we haven't lost anything.

I'm hoping that this will be the last thing to happen. You know how they say that bad things happen in threes - I think this qualifies as both bad and number three. I'm still going to check on the cats, though. I'm a little afraid to think of them in the garage by themselves given our recent spate of "luck."

Fire!

Our son's pre-school caught fire last night. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Unfortunately, we have no idea when our son will be back in school, which means we probably won't be back to a regular work schedule until at least next week.

Talk about frustrating. It's not all bad, though. My mom's getting into town tomorrow, so at least she'll get extra time with Ragsy. Plus, if pre-school is closed Thursday, I might be able to get her to watch him that day. Did I mention that my mom isn't the most grandmotherly person? If she watches Ragsy Thursday, he'll probably lose brain cells. Mom's a huge TV addict, to the point where she's actually purchased her own television for the guest room downstairs and intends to bring an older one for our kitchen. I've put my foot down that it'll be off when Ragsy is here, but that's not likely to work if I ask her to watch him.

Oh, well. Guess we'll just have to crack the whip when we get home. Grrr...

You know your house is messy when...

Your three-year old looks at the clutter, looks at you and says, "Mommy, I don't like this." Yikes. In our defense, the clutter has been created by organizing every closet, flat surface and room in the house. Unfortunately, this means pulling things out, putting them on the floor so we can see them and sorting them into piles: junk, recycle, donate, keep. But, since we have very little time in the evenings and so bloody much stuff, our organizing projects tend to languish on the floor overnight until the next day when we do have time. Then there's the regular day-to-day maintenance work of cleaning the dishes, folding the laundry and so on that eats away even more time.

Even more unfortunately, my husband has so far been uninvolved in the organization process, meaning that it's going much slower since you have someone with limited energy reserves and increased sleep needs doing the work. That's going to change. Tonight.

I had hoped to meet some friends for drinks and dinner, but I don't think we'll be able to get a babysitter, so we might just stay home and clean. My husband will hate it, but he'll do it because he wants this place organized just as much as I do, but is often stymied by indecision on where to start. I can take care of that.

Anyway, you may wonder what I'm doing writing a post in the middle of the morning. Or you may not care. Sadly, I have not quit my job. But on the other hand, I'm working at home before I do a seminar on Medicare at a local community college this afternoon. I desperately needed a break - I'm reading the Senate Finance Committee bill that was released on the 16th. It's slow-going. With the proposal (220 pages) and the actual bill (600-odd pages), it's enough to cause instant insomnia. So I stopped for food and to make some coffee.

I was also really glad to stay home this morning because I got to see Ragsy before his apple-picking field trip. He's been waiting impatiently all week to wear a shirt that he designed at pre-school (apple-shaped sponges dipped in red paint on a white shirt) specially for the field trip. He also loves apples. I was thrilled because he's so passionate about the things he likes. He woke up late (8 a.m., the equivalent of him sleeping 'til noon) because he kept trying to climb into bed with us at 1 a.m. As soon as I went into his room to get him out of bed and reminded him what day today was, he threw his hands up in joy, then threw himself at me for a huge hug, all the while yelling, "Yay! I'm going apple picking!" Then he danced down the hall, delighted to get his clothes and shoes on (another rarity - he loves pajamas) and couldn't stop dancing long enough to drink his milk. He then danced out the door with Daddy, granola bar clutched in one hand, the other hand (and his hips) doing a pre-schooler's version of the Charleston.

I love that. It's moments like those that I live for. That and those rare minutes I manage to snatch with my husband alone in a quiet room. Anyway, back to work. This bill isn't going to read itself, though I wish to God it would. Yuck.

Constant craving.

I am hungry even when I finish eating. It's very frustrating. I just had dinner (about an hour after a snack) a couple of hours ago - a pretty substantial one: about a cup of a BBQ chicken mixture I made and some corn casserole. I was still hungry when I finished, but out of principle refused to eat more. I think I'll have to have a snack before bed, though, or I'll wake up at 2 a.m. again, starving and unable to sleep.

A pattern has developed in my weekends: wake up, eat, sleep. Wake up, eat, sleep. This interspersed with hours of cleaning and playing with my son. But that's the primary theme - when I'm not cleaning or running with Ragsy, I'm waiting until such time as I can go to sleep or eat something again.

What's really aggravating is that Ragsy has unfortunately decided that he no longer wants to sleep. That includes naps and bedtime. He's still up now, at 9:30, yammering at black cat. The thing is, even if you take away all his props (animals, any toys he might be permitted to take to bed), he's imaginative enough that he manages to somehow act something out, even laying down. Right now, he and black cat are apparently having a full Mexican meal, laying down, complete with mariachi music (which he's creating himself, of course), chips, salsa, three different types of beverage, an entree and a basket of something. He'd be doing it with or without black cat, so, short of shutting off his brain, there's no stopping it. Ah, well. It's good to know that I'm not the only one fantasizing about food in bed. The only difference is that he's not actually hungry or he'd make it abundantly clear.

Upkeep, Caddyshack style.

Over the last few months, I've been visited by fire-breathing bunnies who insist on nipping just the tips of my serrano peppers. I took care of those guys, strangely, with a mixture or water and cayenne. Now we have a woodpecker stubbornly boring itself into a wall or our roof. Every morning we hear it, a staccato drilling sound, not unlike a teeny jackhammer. I'm about to blow up the wall.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. But, woodpecker, it's on. Don't settle in. You're not going to be living in my house that long. I won't try to kill you, just scare the bejeezus out of you until you go away. Or I'll move your nest. Yeah, take that!

Timing is everything.

Not only is my baby somehow going to be born smack dab in the middle of the earliest time of year for my particular profession, I recently started getting calls for more freelancing. Starting, of course, in mid-October. It's incredible how everything always happens at once. Blast, this could have been useful last year.

Anyway, speaking of timing, I'm looking forward to having this baby. Carrying him or her has been a delight, but I'm getting heartily sick of doctor's appointments. I'll be at appointments every two weeks with my regular OB next week, plus I'm supposed to go in for weekly non-stress tests and then there's the perinatologist, who loves to see me. So that's a minimum of one appointment per week (for now), with the potential of four per week, if you count my neurologist (who fortunately doesn't need to see me as often) and not including all my blood work.

Anyway, so I go in for my first fetal monitoring session next week. I was all bent out of shape about it earlier, but my husband made an excellent point. Trust him to be the voice of reason. Grr, I hate that.

Husband: Andi, what's wrong?

Answer: *why, yes, I was in quite the diva-like snit* My doctor says I have to go in for fetal monitoring every week! Dammit, I have a job. How can I expect someone to keep me on staff if I can't even guarantee that I'll be there!

Husband: Well, have you been told there are complications with this pregnancy? What questions have you asked?

Answer: If anything I'm doing better with this pregnancy, not worse. My weight gain is less, my blood pressure is better - everything's better so far.

Husband: And, what questions have you asked?

Answer: Ummm...

Husband: So this is precautionary. They have absolutely no reason to suspect something might be going on with the baby.

Answer: Correct...for now.

Husband: Okay, why haven't you asked more questions about why they want you in so often?

Answer: Well...

Husband: You know they can't force you to go, right? Or you can at least ask for more information. I mean, if nothing is wrong and everyone knows it, even your doctor, why would you agree to possibly unnecessary tests without asking more just because they say so?

Answer: Ahhh.....

Husband: When you get closer to delivery, it probably makes sense, but you can disagree or at least get more information, you know.

Answer: *crickets chirping, Andi sniffing* Oh, yeah.

So I called, talked to the doctor who said that it was just standard policy for high risk pregnancies and she agreed that it was probably unnecessary but that she wanted me to go in next week if possible to get a baseline to start from and that, if I could, she'd like me to go in weekly, but if it wasn't possible, as long as my tests were normal, I could have a pass.

I wish I'd thought of that earlier instead of going into an "I can work like this!" diatribe. I'm lucky enough to have that luxury where many women experiencing a high-risk pregnancy don't. So I should shut my pie hole and take advantage of it already.

And they're out!

Everyone's asleep. At last. My husband and Ragsy went on a morning jaunt to the zoo that wound up lasting way longer than it was supposed to. Since I do most of my cooking on Sundays, that left me with plenty of time to whip up an enormous lunch, of which only I have partaken. Go figure. But at least I get some time alone, right?

By the time he got home, my husband had managed to wear our son out so much he actually asked to go to sleep, something that's completely unheard of. Unfortunately, my husband also insisted my son eat something before bed, resulting in an hour-long eating marathon that involved very little eating and a lot of attempting to play, culminating in threats for him to sleep or he would have to stay home from a friend's house this evening. Now that I think about it, that's a stupid threat since I'd be shooting myself in the foot, too.

Anyway, yesterday was a blast - we went to Eckert's for a work/family event my husband's company put on and came home with eight pounds of apples. Fortunately, Ragsy really likes apples and has managed to eat two already. I guess we'll be eating lots of applesauce, apple pie, compote and cake in the coming weeks. If you like apples, you're definitely invited. I'm already tired of them.

One down, one to go.

Where on earth did all these darn books come from? I'm still boxing the things up and I've been doing it for a couple of weeks now. I've managed to clean out a large book case (keeping all of my husband's at his request and donating mine that I don't want) and my nightstand and have come up with six boxes of books to keep and six bags of books to donate. That doesn't include the small amount of books I've decided not to put in storage or donate (fiction books I know I'll read again, baby-related books for the first couple years, etc.).

Still, it's like these books are crawling out of the woodwork. There are books from my graduate program - books by Plato and Plutarch and Nietzsche, plus ceramic dating techniques, information on the evolution of writing, South American paleoethnobotany, bone identification, etc. - some of which I'll keep to make myself feel good when I'm old. Then there are the trashy romances, a couple anthologies that I was in, and about a bazillion from other authors (what? a girl's gotta do some research). Then there is the mishmash of literary fiction, poetry, household how-to books, random recipe books and a copy of the Ramayana that my husband's granddad gave me while we were in India. It's such a weird collection.

I love my books. I wish I had the time to sit down and catalog them all so I know which ones I've read, but if I run out of steam just bagging them up, I can't imagine I'll ever get them out the door if I record them. I still have bookcase #2 to go and a closet full of odds and ends - books, books and more books, plus photos and other things I stuffed in there one day when I was cleaning to get ready for my sister to visit.

Gah! How did I get so much stuff and when did it all get so disorganized? Oh, well. Better late than never to get it together, I suppose. Maybe by the time these kids are in college I'll have gotten organized enough to stop obsessing over my bookcases.

Excuse me?

Yes, it's another rant about pregnancy. Or rather, my husband's response to my pregnancy. So far, I've been pretty stable emotionally. So, what, I cried while watching an AT&T commercial. But that was months ago and I was alone. So that doesn't count. And yes, a couple of songs on the radio have made me dissolve into a puddle. Again, I was alone. Doesn't count.

Yet I almost lost it today when I was complaining that I spent most of my day standing up at work because every time I sat down I was kicked in the same blasted spot from about 10 a.m. until I left work at 4:45 p.m. and I was beginning to get tender. Nothing I could do with the exception of sitting down could dislodge the little creature from the top right of my abdomen. Why did I almost lose it? Well, my husband (whom I love dearly) suggested that perhaps I ought to watch my sugar intake. Ahem.

I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you just say I should watch my sugar intake? Why, yes, I did share a milkshake with you yesterday afternoon. However, that's been the extent of my sugar intake for two days. Remember when I had a large glass of milk while you consumed God knows how much ice cream the night before last? Or perhaps when I indulged in some cocoa-roasted almonds while you had some cookies? Or maybe my great sugar indulgence was the bowl of strawberries I ate with my whole wheat toast the other day.

I am far from a saint where anything is concerned, least of all food. But I've been pretty decent so far and remember: I'm dangerous. I'm nesting and I'm getting jerked awake at least three or four times a night thanks to my internal ninja and am soaking the sheets nightly thanks to hot flashes. And having to wake up then sit up simply to roll over as if I were some beached whale isn't helping any. Oh, and did I mention how fun it is to squirm in my seat in the middle of facilitating a meeting, hoping no one notices how sweaty I've suddenly become?

So watch the food comments, buddy. You make them at your peril.

Let the weekend begin!

12:45 a.m. on Monday morning and my weekend can finally start. I've been working on a pet project all weekend and have finally sent off a finished product. Which means that I'll be working next weekend, too, but at least it's on something that benefits me directly and I can forget about it temporarily. Now maybe I'll actually have time for some creative writing instead of professional consulting. I'd much rather spend a late night cuddled up to my computer if I can legitimately use the word "throbbing." Somehow that word just doesn't work well with Medicare.

Other than that, I've been dedicating myself to exhausting my family by doggedly organizing (from the mess I've made, you wouldn't know it), scrubbing things, side projects and frantic baby-related purchases (don't I already have most of this stuff?). Ragsy took an unheard-of 3-hour nap today. So did I.

But, I'm trying to look at things on the good side. My feet aren't swollen when I wake up - they go down overnight, which is more than I can say for this time last pregnancy. I've still got a modicum of energy, again, which is more than I can say for this time last pregnancy. I think it has something to do with a three year old boy giggling like a lunatic and yelling, "Mommy, let's run!" and me being genius enough to do it. Consequently, my weight gain is still reasonable at 17 pounds. I try to ignore the fact that I was never small to begin with.

Anyway, there's no way things will be ready by the time this kid gets here or even by the time my energy runs dry. But we'll be closer than before Ragsy was born, I think. Now if this kid will just avoid being born on my birthday, I think we'll be golden.

Ice cream truck.

Have I ever told you about the neighborhood ice cream truck? I can't recall, but if I have, feel free to stop reading. The ice cream truck has become something of a legend (and a joke) in our family. It's like the yeti - one of those things that people have seen but they can't actually get evidence that such a creature exists.

In our case, the ice cream man for some incomprehensible reason drives his ice cream van as fast as humanly possible down our street, seemingly to avoid selling any actual ice cream, something that continues to frustrate our son and perplex and amuse the heck out of the rest of us. A sighting occurs something like this:

We'll hear the jack-in-the-box music of the ice cream van as it begins its trip down our street. Ragsy will brighten - at last, he'll be able to get ice cream from an actual ice cream truck, right in front of his house! But alas, before we make it to the door, we hear the music temporarily peak in volume, then quickly subside. Foiled again! We might see the back of the ice cream truck as it races down the street, then the confused faces of other parents watching it zoom away.

I can't help but snicker. The last time I discussed this with my mom, she said that she was lucky - their ice cream guy was on a bike and the neighborhood kids could easily run him to ground for the privilege of purchasing treats. Sadly, our ice cream man comes better equipped. The ice cream stays cold and plentiful, away from the prying hands of children and the cash of their parents.

Oh, well. Maybe someday we'll get him.

Beach!

We just got back from a too-short but long-awaited vacation to Hilton Head Island, where we met my sister and brother-in-law. It was fantastic. We had hoped to take Ragsy somewhere before the baby came so we could spend some time together as a family and enjoy ourselves before I got too lethargic to do much, and since Ragsy had never had a chance to play in the ocean and we wanted to see my sister and brother-in-law, we settled on someplace closer to them and got a condo for a few days.

We went to the beach every day for several hours, rented some bikes and rode all over the island and played tennis until we all wanted to drop. Then we ate tons of junk food to make up for it, then went on walks afterward to work it off again. I think I can safely say that I got around 2-3 hours of exercise a day. Which worked out well since I had a doctor's appointment the day after.

Fortunately, I was able to get over any modesty I might have had, despite being nearly six and a half months pregnant. Though I do find myself wondering - why on earth are all maternity suits in two pieces these days?

Anyway, here are some photos.















My son and his dad looking at a "pirate ship" at Seven Pines Harbor Town.















Me and Ragsy in front of a statue of Neptune at the Disney resort (if you've never been, Hilton Head is an island made up almost entirely of resorts, so we visited several, but stayed at Palmetto Dunes).
















Ragsy toward the end of a long day running up and down the beach.

You'll notice that there are no actual photos in this blog to prove that I wore a swimsuit, so you'll have to take my word for it (I do have evidence, though).

Miss-Information

I just finished watching The Daily Show, and I think my head is going to explode. Their guest was Betsy McCaughy, PhD. She was arguing against the most recently-proposed health bill. I was so astounded at her misreading of the bill that I wanted to reach through the TV and smack her. Additionally, it's amazing that people are so outraged at this proposed bill because the bill is not law.

My responsibilities at my previous employer included researching and making technical rebuttals over proposed legislation back to the federal government on provisions we disagreed on; assisting clients in making such technical rebuttals; understanding Congressional intent in my own little corner of the regulatory world; and implementing and assisting clients to implement such technical and overarching operational guidance. I also worked with our lobby to change legislation and even managed to do so on some occasions. After that experience, my biggest beefs with Dr. McCaughy's points were:

1. First and foremost, the bill is not law. The way bills generally work in Congress (at least my understanding) is that one person proposes something (or sponsors it, anyway). The bill makes its way through the chain. People hate it. They send back their comments. The people who created it make changes to it and send it back again. Then rinse and repeat until they get a final bill everyone can live with. So if everyone would shut the hell up for five seconds and realize that, perhaps we can get something through Congress to help people.

2. The overarching Congressional intent on Medicare is to protect its beneficiaries, which is one of the many reasons complicated fraud, waste and abuse and quality reporting requirements are implemented. Other checks are put in place as well to prevent private companies (including health plans insuring beneficiaries, their physicians, pharmacies and anyone associated with the program) from defrauding or otherwise doing anything not in the best interest of the beneficiary. Sub-regulatory guidance like this includes marketing provisions, enrollment/disenrollment provisions, reporting requirements over and above quality (such as prescription drug event, medical event, etc.) and more. In other words, don't screw with the beneficiary.

3. Dr. McCaughey was referring not to the actual provision of the issue at hand (the end-of-life discussion, whether it's required and what's to be discussed), but the reporting requirements, which indicate that the doctor must provide life sustaining care if requested by the patient and/or his/her health proxy. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is said that the physician must choose to terminate or otherwise withold treatment - it all focuses on sustaining the life of the patient. Nowhere in the provisions (see page 424 through 431 of the bill). Indeed, the physician isn't even required to have such a discussion with the beneficiary if he or she declines. Further, the discussion between the medical professional and patient must focus on factual information only. As in, these are the ways you can tell people what you want, here's who can help you do that and here are some other resources. That's it.

At this point, it appears that no one really gives a rat's ass what the bill says, but what they've decided it says. Also, Dr. McCaughey kept repeating herself like a freaking parrot, but said absolutely nothing of value. I find it completely disgusting that people like her are preying on others' confusion simply to advance some sort of agenda, and I'm sad that she was given a national forum on which she could continue to spread such misinformation.

Do I think the bill is great? Good God, no. Is it even good? Not really, but it's a place to start. So shut up and get started already. Times a' wasting and people are underserved, dying and going broke trying to ensure their families have access to insurance and healthcare. To both sides: shut your traps and get to work. Isn't that what we pay you for anyway?

Lightening?

So I'm getting into the third trimester of pregnancy. The baby is already starting to drop - I tend to carry low apparently, and Ragsy was about at the same position this one is around the same time. I was refreshing my memory on the various stages of development and pregnancy and realized once more that eventually (prior to labor), I'll start "lightening." Why this stage is somehow associated with anything other than "heavying" is anyone's guess.

Anyway, the weekend went pretty well. We kept things really low key, big emphasis on sleep and our undivided attention, and Ragsy's tic was gone by Sunday. It came back a little today because he was tired - he got very excited about going back to pre-school last night and wouldn't sleep until late. Hopefully he'll get into the swing of things soon. If he doesn't, we'll just have to figure something out, whether that entails a different room or reduced working hours and more time with us.

Work is...well, my boss had earlier called me in to make sure I was doing ok with the "grueling" pace. If the pace at work is grueling, I can't imagine how deadly boring a slow period would be. You'd think with all the political machinations going on, we'd be a little more strategic and, well, proactive. But my boss is a staunch conservative and he unabashedly allows his politics to pour into his work. He actually tried to convince me to use the term "death panel" in a press release. Didn't happen.

After this kid is born, I'd like to wrap things up and start my exit strategy. I'm receiving little to no mental stimulation. And while I don't expect people to always agree with me, I don't like having to police my boss to make sure our company isn't perceived as partisan and offensive.

And so it begins.

You know that part of pregnancy when you begin to hear such classics like, "Wow, I can't believe how big you're getting?" Well, apparently I've entered that stage. At work, anyway. I forgot how annoying this part of pregnancy was. Why must people feel so comfortable commenting on such things? My weight gain isn't particularly insane - I'm right around 16 or 17 pounds heavier than I was before I got pregnant. I'm starting to get occasional ankle and finger swelling if I don't walk around a lot - the last thing I want to hear is confirmation that I'm beginning to look like a whale.

Oh, and did I mention that everyone at work except two people - yes, two people - calls me "Mama" or "Mommy?" Even my own mother has taken to referring to me as "Mom." Well, there goes my identity again. I remember that was one of the hardest parts of having Ragsy emotionally. You sort of disappear for a while into this strange nothingness where you're your kid's mom and that's it. I know it's going to be lots worse after the new baby is actually born and I won't begrudge him or her a moment of attention or love, but it sort of sucks when you were used to being yourself to other people and suddenly you're only yourself to you.

And Ragsy's been pitching more of a fit lately, too. I don't think it's the baby - Ragsy has seen ultrasounds but so far has incredibly bad timing about actually feeling it move, though God knows I've got another linebacker in my stomach. I think it's the start of pre-school.

Even though all his school bus and party cake dreams have come true, I guess pre-school brings with it a lot more expectations (that you'll always go to the bathroom when you need to go, that your behavior is more mature, etc.) and new experiences. It's wearing on him a little. He's even developed a transient tic where he blinks his eyes really hard occasionally. At first we were concerned that it was a vision issue, but that doesn't seem to be the problem. And it gets lots worse when we mention it, so we're trying to keep our mouths shut. I'm hoping it'll ease up over the weekend after he's had some time to decompress. His doctor doesn't seem concerned, so I'm going to try not to get weirded out by it.

Oh, well. He's an intense kid and I wouldn't have him any other way.

Ow.

I finally finished reading all 1,018 pages of the recent healthcare reform legislation. My brain is killing me. But what's killing me more is the misinformation being spread by people who have no idea what the hell they're talking about.

"Death panels?" Seriously? "Euthanize the elderly?" How do you get that out of "provide vehicles to allow seniors to let their providers know what type of care they would like to receive?" Strangely enough, I got something closer to, "medical powers of attorney." It's like a twisted, ugly game of telephone.

Anyway, in case you care, after reading the bill from the objective of a beneficiary advocate and as someone who has actually implemented a privatized government healthcare program (focusing on the Medicare portion, of course, because that's what I do), the whole thing seems pretty sound. Yes, there are some portions of it that may be difficult or in some cases nearly impossible to implement, at least in my experience with the government-run healthcare and entitlement programs (Medicare plan sponsors, supplemental legislation and SCHIP and Medicaid and Social Security Insurance and Social Security Disability Insurance). But at the same time, at least there's a framework to start from. Kind of like when you create a first draft of copy for a novel: you have to have somewhere to start from, provide someone something to rip apart, to get somewhere in the first place.

I am so tired, though. Another big part of my job is following the media, which makes me want to scream. This is lots, lots worse than when I had to read the American Recovery & Reinvestment Act of 2009 (you know, the gigantic bill that implemented Cash for Clunkers, new COBRA extensions, extra Medicare protections and payment provisions and energy assistance). People are freaking nuts. This whole healthcare debate has significantly diminshed my faith in politicians to distribute even remotely accurate information and others' ability to distinguish truth from lies. Or to even care where that line is.

I'll just put a bug in your ear.

This weekend was very quiet except for last night. Saturday was spent at the Magic House and going out to lunch, crowned by a quiet afternoon. Sunday Ragsy took me on an hour-long run. I was really proud of myself - I managed to keep up at a light jog the whole time, despite wearing a pair of jeans and a regular bra (poor boobs). When we got home, our little one soon collapsed for a 3-hour nap. Then came the evening.

Last night was quite an adventure. Around 9:30, our son pops out of bed and, very seriously, says, "Mommy, there's a bug in my ear. I can feel it moving around. It hurts." Yikes. That's not unreasonable; we'd spent most of the morning and early afternoon outside, he'd had a chance to throw sand before we went for our impromptu run and we have lots of bugs in the common area in the back of our house. So, we take him into the bathroom for a better look, but can find nothing. Ragsy keeps saying it hurts and is consistent - it was his right ear. So we call our insurance company's nursing hotline and are advised to get to an urgent care unit or ER tout de suite in case there really is a bug.

So, we start with Walgreens. Even though I know their Take Care Clinic isn't open this late, their Web site says they have otoscopes (something we could use to look in Ragsy's ear). We get there. No dice. And the chase is on - for a doctor or someone who can operate an otoscope for a few seconds.

Sundays are understandably busy days in most ERs and urgent care units - after all, doctors' offices aren't open Sundays, so where are the people who need medical care to go? So, we start with St. Luke's - it's closest. It also has a 3-hour wait and unfortunately, before anyone can get near our son with an otoscope, he needs to be processed and wait his turn. He wasn't exactly urgently ill, but the nurse had said that bugs can easily damage ear drums and the inner walls of the ear canal if allowed to remain in the ear. Anyway, St. Lukes' nurses tell us that there's an urgent care unit open 24 hours a day on Dorsett & McKelvey. My husband recalls one just up the street on Olive, so we swing by there first. Closed. Okay, well Barnes-Jewish West is on the way to 270. We stop there. Another 3-hour wait. Crud. But they direct us to the pediatric unit of the ER at Missouri Baptist.

We get there and are directed to the pediatric unit within five minutes. Within five minutes more, we've been visited by a nurse, who takes all Ragsy's vitals and by a doctor, who assures us that there's nothing more than standard (non-impacted) ear wax in Ragsy's ears - both of them. No cleaning necessary. He commented that there was a little sand in there, which is probably what was causing the sensation of having something crawling around in there.

I think the nurse was being nice when she told us we'd done the right thing bringing him in. But she said that bugs in kids' ears was especially common and a large problem in St. Louis City, where many of the homes are older or children live in areas that are more likely to be infested for whatever reason. She told me that one of the worst things she'd seen as a nurse was a roach extraction from a child's ear because their legs are barbed and they sink them into the lining of the ear to prevent being pulled out. Yuck.

Anyway, as usual, the process of getting out took longer than the diagnosis. We were home by 11:30/midnight-ish. For Ragsy, the whole thing had been a grand adventure. Within minutes of tucking Ragsy into bed, he was out again to inform us that there was another bug in his ear. He told us of another bug this morning when he woke up at 6:30 (what is wrong with him?), then again a few minutes ago (he's singing in bed instead of sleeping). Now I think it's time to have a discussion about crying wolf.