Monday, August 31, 2009

Things I've Been Doing Lately

No Ultrasound For You! V and I went to the doc's. Talk about excited! Big V talked nothing BUT having a chance to see the baby "one more time." (I know that he's been secretly researching how to read ultrasounds to determine the sex of the baby but he was trying to play it off like he just wanted to make sure the kidneys and liver were forming properly.) We get there, I pee in the cup, hop up on the table draped in an oversized paper towel -- and then we're told we're free to go. WOAH! Hold on there a minute, Missy! Last week you promised us an ultrasound. That is the only reason we came back. But that was only because we wanted to verify the positioning but it's obvious from the let me put my hands all over you test that baby has dropped into the proper heads down position so it's no longer necessary. That was the biggest let down we've had in a long time. To make matters worse the doc went on and on with her opinion that, yep, for certain I would not be going early and I'd just have to wait until the due date of September 20th.

Whooping It Up Prego Style! V and I went to the best wedding I've been to in a really long time! The weather was chilly for a summer on the lake wedding, but it was absolutely gorgeous out! The location was unbelievable. The food, terrific. The music, stellar. Everything was just perfect. Ever go to one of those weddings where you sit blissfully in the church pew looking at the bride and groom and just know that the planets lined up specifically for them, and that somehow, no matter what happens in life, these two will still be holding hands when they're 90 years old? Yeah, it was one of those weddings. And I am so glad we were able to be a part of it. V and I danced the night away... I wasn't worried since we were coming off the OB Visit dooming us to several more weeks of simmering. Although we were told that September 3rd would be the date by some guy who swears he's always right about these things and "has a feeling." I immediately thought, "YES!" and then changed it to, "NO! Dotter has her first official cheering at a football game thing Thursday night and I can't miss it."

Basement Bingo. V helped me organize the basement. Essentially I pointed at things and he moved them to where I told him to put it. The basement looks awesome! (Now, maybe we can shove the Bean down there with her friends when they come to visit.)

Dirt up to my Elbows. My dad dropped off several plants for my birthday. It was my job to re-pot them. I tried. I really, honestly tried. I managed to get them in pots - with potting soil - and tried to fluff out the roots like I've been told, and I added some water... so, let's just cross our fingers and see.... I feel really bad when I kill plants. I don't need the guilt right now.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

A little love...

I sent V a text letting him know we had another doctor's appointment this afternoon. It's a fun one because they'll do an ultrasound. I've been nervous because with my other pregnancies I underwent a plethora of ultrasounds, to the point I'd just hop on the table, lube up, and expertly swirl the magic wand around myself. This doctor is a minimalist: we had the initial "yep, it's a blob!" and the 20-week "So, do you want to find out the sex?" ultrasounds, but then absolutely nothing for the next four months. Now I'm nervous. What if something is wrong and they should have told us three months ago?

V, of course, oozes optimism. On more than one occasion I've accused him of living in a Fairy Land where nothing ever goes wrong, nobody ever gets hurt, and nothing bad ever happens to anyone. So, when I sent him the confirmation text I shouldn't have been surprised when I received:

Sweet! I can see our baby and his or her heart and head and arms and feet....

To which I appropriately replied:

If it still has all those parts....

Not to be affected by my negative attitude he responded with:

Well, let's hope he's not a cannibal and eating his own body parts. That would be creepy.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

If ever I become unexpectantly unemployed, I know I shall have success as a Bank Robber Planner. I don't actually know if I could get paid for that, probably only with stolen money, which would eventually be tracked back to me and cause great hassles for me and my family, but if need be, the skill is there. I don't actually want to commit the crime itself, per se, just plan it out.


Big V and I are becoming very skilled in the Art of Avoidance as well as Pondering All Possibilities. We are currently undergoing intense reviews in regards to "The Labor."


The Labor will be soon. Whether tonight or a few weeks from now, it's bound to happen, and we need to be ready.


I have the easy-going family. The "who cares if you lose an eye; you've got another one" type. I could show up at my parent's house a month after I had the baby and they'd be like Oh, Look! You had the baby! There is no threat or worry that they would disown me. Now, V's family is more like You've been in labor for eleven minutes and yet you didn't call?!


V & I both agree that what we don't need is forteen extra people crowding the delivery room while I attempt to push out life form. I can see it now, Well, she's been pushing now for two hours, V. We're getting hungry. Is there any way you can tell her to speed this up? Um... I can hear you!


Practicing due diligence we've forewarned every one of our wishes. We wish to be alone at the hospital and just concentrate on the giving birth part rather than the entertaining guests aspect of our 24-hour stay. We wish to hold our newborn baby in our arms first, rather than pass the poor child around through set after set of arms filled with germs among coughing, slobbering children who think they're big enough and strong enough to hold a baby on their own. We wish to be able to get up and hobble across the room to the bathroom without worrying if those fishnet grannie panties are flashing the peanut gallery. (Ok, I wish that one. V wasn't even aware of what happens after the birth...)


So here's our plan so far: Casually drop the girls off at my sister's or mother's house on a Friday night after work under the pretense of going to some adult establishment and then hightail it to the hospital. Call around two a.m. pretending to be too drunk to drive safely home. Ask if the girls can spend the night... or two (since we'll obviously be too "hung over" to be effective parents on Saturday). Sunday afternoon pick the girls up with an extra baby already in the car. Introduce new sibling.


Of course, this only works if that's when I actually go into labor. Odds are good though: Jelly Bean was a Saturday, Dotter was a Friday evening.


If it's during the work day I have to get out of there without the office crew catching on. The word will get out way too quick. Luckily for me I already have kids. Kids that are prone to last minute sicknesses and accidents - and I will use that as an excuse.

Obviously I need to grab V's attention while he's at work, but his boss happens to be married to one of V's Mother's Friends.... you can see the gossip wheel spinning already, can't you. Now, imagine the guilt trip V will be forced to ride if someone other than his mother finds out before her that he's headed to the hospital. Can't you imagine the quandry? Quite a quandry indeed.

To handle the "How to get out of work without letting the boss know the reason why" issue, we've decided that I'll send a quick text that reads NOW! At that moment, V will orchestrate a minor finger gnashing with the table saw. Not enough to lose a finger, but bad enough to warrant a trip to the ER. (We are headed in that direction anyway. A few stitches won't kill him.)

Ok, so there are some kinks we need to work through, but we're working on them. I'm sure everything will work out just the way it was meant to...

Sunday, August 23, 2009

I Survived!

The Forced Couples Baby Shower was not as bad as it could have been. A bit odd that V's mother insisted she had no idea who was invited, yet when people started filing in it was very apparent she had supplied a list of names and addresses to her friends. I must admit to feeling incredibly uncomfortable as V and I were handed gifts by people we were just meeting. To be fair, they seemed just as uncomfortable handing gifts to people they were just meeting.

A few odd comments here and there from V's mother and sister. I was being introduced to one lady standing next to V's mom when Mommy Dearest turned and announced, "This is only the second time I've seen her since she became pregnant." Now, this is a flat out lie, but I suppose you don't get quite the dramatic and pained response from, "I've made their life a living hell upon learning they were expecting, and she finally stopped coming around two months ago when she realized I will never let up..."

His sister told me to please call when we have the baby because they would love to know if it's a boy or a girl, but she's not telling us how to to things, it's just that it would be nice to know the name of someone they're related to, but to please do whatever we feel comfortable with.

Can we get any more passive?

All in all it wasn't a horrible experience. I didn't quite understand the American Flag cake, but I suppose we are increasing the overall citizenship of America by one, so perhaps it was fitting. We've got a jump on diapers and baby wipes thanks to Dave & Sarah. I cannot thank them enough for listening to what we needed and pulling through for us. It's a tough time with back to school supplies for my two existing children, clothes, school registration fees, etc., so we truly do appreciate the ginormous box of diapers!

Friday, August 21, 2009

With only three hours to go, it doesn't look like I'll make it to "intense labor mode" by 5pm. What's in three hours, you ask? Well, that would be the forced couples baby shower V and I will be racing to attend.

His family insists on hosting a shower. Sounds easy enough. Wrecked with drama, it is.

V just called... he had stopped by his parent's house and his mom asked if we were planning on going to the shower tonight. (Um, yeah... it is for us, right?) That led to a discussion about who was invited. V said he didn't know; the guest list was taken over by the aunts. V told me he's a little nervous about who they may have invited. With my luck it will be all his ex-girlfriends. What's odd about this is that we never wanted a shower in the first place. We have everything we need, except for diapers & baby wipes, but we were told (many times) that it was selfish to deny V's mom this opportunity to throw us a shower. And yet she doesn't seem to be involved in the planning process whatsoever. (Maybe we're supposed to give her a gift?)

So the guests will be a surprise. Not the gifts, though. No, that was explained to V in detail. Since we "won't accept anything nice from anyone" they're just giving us gift cards to WalMart.

Boy, doesn't this just sound like an infinite amount of fun!

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The beginning of the long, drawn out end....

30 days to the due date. I'm actually finding myself quite nervous. I can't make it up a flight of stairs without getting completely out of breath; how on earth will I survive hours of labor? At this point I think I have a better chance of pushing my car up a hill with one hand. Pushing something the size of a watermelon out my yoo-hoo, which, for the record, is the size of a grape.... Ok, I actually don't know if that's accurate, but it's got to be close. Anyway, you get my point. The car would be easier.

We had an appointment Tuesday. Time for some fun! Pee in the cup, get weighed, measure the abdomen, have something scraped against my rectum, blood pres --- Wait, scrape WHERE?! Yeah, something else they never tell you about. But I survived.

Since I have this odd little habit of getting dizzy, seeing floaters, blacking out and vomitting all over myself, etc., the doc decided to hook me up to a monitor. They took V and I to this darkened room with the largest, comfiest chair ever in the middle of the room. After I kicked V out of the comfy chair and over to the hard, waiting-type one, I was strapped up. One monitor followed the baby, the other my uterus. V fell asleep right away, so he missed the twenty minutes of fun. (I told him he had to pack a bag for the hospital filled with things that would keep him awake, otherwise I might kill him if I see him sleeping while pain is ripping me in half. He agreed that he didn't really want to die, so he's going to throw some entertaining items together.)

The doc came back in and checked the read-out commenting, "Oh, you have some pretty regular contractions... can you feel them?" Uh, that would be a YES. For the past few days, in fact, that would be a yes. I explained I could work through them (I wanted her to think I was really strong and able, not weak and wimpy like some of those other pregnant moms-to-be). I did not tell her that the way I defined "work through" was grab onto whatever was closest to me and squeeze my eyes tight while praying I survived the next 45 seconds. (So far, God has answered my prayers and I've survived and I thank Him for that.)

I casually tossed out, "But those are just those Braxton-Hicks contractions, right?" (I wanted to impress V with my vast prego-medico terminology.) To which the doctor replied, "No. They're the real things, they just aren't doing anything to your body to progress labor." Contractions, say what?!

Let me get this straight... for the past couple days I've been experiencing "real" contractions that have done absolutely nothing for me. And this could continue for how long? "Well, until your body is ready." Like in two days? Or a month? Or two weeks after my due date -- which is six weeks, you know.... "It could be any of those scenarios, but I think you'll be right at your due date based on your past two pregnancies."

So, anyway, I hate my doctor now. I mean, any woman who can look another woman in the eye and say with a clear conscious, "You may experience contractions for the next thirty days" does not have my respect. I'm pretty black-and-white when it comes to things like this, and she is no longer my friend.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Passive Aggressive much?

One of my professional duties is issuing notices of violation and citations when property owners are not following our zoning codes. (Think of a police officer busting a speeder... except I don't get the cool bullet proof vest, tazer, or car with lights & sirens.)

I don't expect people to like me, much less thank me, for doing my job, because it usually means they were doing something they very much wanted to do that I made them stop doing. And people don't generally want to thank me for that. But every once in a while a "thank you" comes through to me. Here's one I received this afternoon from a gentleman that complied with stopping and fixing a non-compliant situation:

I do want to thank you for taking the time to note the "end to the matter." These have not been easy solutions for me or to my needs.

Losing the many thousands of dollars on the mobile home, does not hurt as much as I will not be able to use my farm until I get a caretaker to live there. Which probably means I will never be able to use my farm again. And since I am almost 79 years old, doesn't really mean forever.

I would not allow this 20 years ago. Or even 15 years ago, when I spent many months trying to work with your town to bring sewer/water to my land, I think over those years ... not once did anyone in your town ever show the courtesy of answering one letter, return one call, or agree to meet with me. I simply decided not to deal with your town and never did since. Except now, you came to me through my back door and dictated how I can use my land.

Now I am weak with Lung Cancer, tired most of the time. I lost my younger son 3 years ago from a brain tumor so I have no one to leave the legacy of what I can do or to whom the land should belong to.

I have protected the Indian Mounds there .. discovered in 1929 and not developed the land with tickey tack houses ... What I should have done was dig it all up and throw it onto your side of "my fence." (as you don't even have a fence of your own.)

I am glad you are content with the outcome, God know why you are, but apparently you are.

I feel the needles from the voodoo doll already...

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Not a problem.

As a parent you never know what impact television viewing will have on your children. I jump up to change channels when the preview of a scary movie comes on because frankly, I don't want to deal with nightmares and such. Dotter, especially, tends to worry and be leaning towards the extremo anxiety side of life.

So when Dotter informed me she watched a show about 16-year old Minnesota conjoined twins Brittany & Abby I immediately thought, "Great! Here it comes... a thousand questions, tons of 'what if's', she's going to be a nervous wreck until this baby is born..."

But (as often the case with children) she surprised me wishing upon wishing that I would give birth to conjoined twins. "Wouldn't it be great to never feel alone?" she asked. "They wouldn't be afraid when they went to sleep, and they could just always have a friend with them."

"What if one wanted to watch one TV show, and the other wanted to watch something else?" She thought about this for a second before coming up with the perfect solution: "I would get them two little TVs and put them next to each other and they would each have their own earphones so they could hear their own show and they could also sit together and share popcorn at the same time!"

This is why I love her so much! And why I'm putting her on the next ballot for president.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Gymnastics Wannabe

I have always been impressed with gymnasts. Perhaps because I'm the least flexible person alive. I've never been able to do that bend & reach test in gym class. My legs don't even lay flat against the ground. It would take every ounce of my being just to reach down to my thighs. I'd be left grunting and groaning, begging myself to 'just. reach. knee....' while surrounded by the most flexible humans on the face of the planet. "Good job, Mary Sue!" the teacher would praise. "I love how you can get your head under you legs and reach out three feet past your toes!"

Jelly Bean took gymnastics for quite a while. All the coaches said the same thing "she's a natural." And she was. Is. She just has this way about her that screams "gymnast." But, as is most things with the Bean, she judges herself against everyone better than her, and quits. I'd point out she was only ten and these girls were 16 and their mothers put them in gymnastics the day they stopped breastfeeding. But she insisted that she wanted to quit. (If she's not the best, she doesn't want to subject herself to the redicule she believes in her heart she's going to get.)

Dotter takes gymnastics. She loves it. She is not good at it. She is all knobby knees and gawky arms. But she is SO PROUD and SO SERIOUS and I can't help but have tears in my eyes when I watch her.

But I have lots of faith in my future Gymnastics Olympian Cletus the Fetus. Last night s/he was practicing this amazing move where he placed his little hands down on my pelvic floor, bent his body into the perfect handstand, legs extended, toes pointed perfectly (I could tell this because they were in my throat and all I had to do was open my mouth and say "Ahh" and sure enough - perfectly pointed toes!). Then he lowered his legs into the splits - still on his hands - head bulging out right above my panty line, one leg sticking out of the right side of my rib cage, the other leg sticking out of the left side. And then, as if that wasn't amazing enough, he started to slowly move his hands in such a way that his legs acted like the main rotor of a helicopter! In a complete 360-degrees he circled my womb with legs stretched outright!

I am so proud of my little gymnast-to-be. However, I will have to speak to Cletus the Fetus about being aware of the space around him when he practices these moves. I believe I have a punctured spleen, my liver has been hacked in half and my kidneys are missing some pieces. I mean, some of this stuff may not be important to him, but it's special to me, and I don't want him disrespecting his surroundings or his mother's belongings... especially of the internal organ kind.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

An Open Letter In Response to Judgment

Dear School Board Chairperson,

Thank you for the five minute "entry interview" conducted last evening. I do hope that was plenty of time for you to decide whether or not my second grader will experience the honor and privilege of attending your school. Oh, wait... it's not actually your school, per se, you just happen to be the current school board chairperson. Well, I'm sure those other members who glanced nervously at the ground while you conducted the "interview" also believe you are the sole person in charge.

I was just tickled pink when you brought up the fact that I was unmarried. It's sometimes difficult for me to impress upon my daughter, who was sitting right next to me - you remember her, don't you? Nervous looking 7-year old... the one blushing, who couldn't quite look in your eyes... yes, that was her -- anyway, it's sometimes difficult for me to impress upon my daughter how socially shamed she should feel because her mother chose to get out of a very difficult and very unhealthy marriage. I won't bother telling you the sordid reasons why I chose to leave because, well, honestly you wouldn't care one way or the other.

Private schools should be for the cream of the crop. The best of the best! Which you made clear I was not. I think it was the passive question, "Is this just a short term thing or is this something that you can afford long term?"

You're right. I'm not rich, like you flaunt. Nor am I educated, as you like to enjoy reminding all other peons. (For the record, I tried to bow down to your Attorney Title, but my bulging stomach got in the way.) But I'm not wishing to send my child to this school because I think people will envy me assuming I am wealthy.

The most enjoyable moment came when you asked me if I regularly attended church "anywhere." You made it sound just like my face would look if I had to pick up someone's handkerchief they had just finished hawking up huge wads of phlegm in. I thought I answered well, and even may have presented myself in a different light by describing the MOMS program I was also involved in, and which I believe in wholeheartedly. Your response was a curt, "Well, we don't have that here."

I guess I was worried exiting the entry interview so soon after arriving... enrollment is down, this child wishes to attend, and I don't know many schools that would turn down $4,000 for school tuition during a slow season. But then again, I'm not the school board chairperson, am I? And the decision to attend is actually up to you and the rest of the board.

I do hope Dotter can attend. It's where she would feel comfortable, but whatever happens will happen, and we'll make the best of it. We always have.

Monday, August 10, 2009

6 weeks to go... or 34 weeks down (depending on how you look at it)

Cletus the Fetus has a new trick. I swear I'm not making this up. Big V was there. He saw the whole thing.

After a particularly harsh day of Ultimate Womb Fighting I was laying in bed attempting to relax my uterus, which was working as well as if you had been beaten in the abdomen with a metal bat and then expected to gently release the pain through visions of kittens and bunny rabbits, which is saying, it wasn't working at all and I was in a lot of pain and wanted to ensure that everyone knew how misearable I was.

Anyway, V, in his infinite pregnancy wisdom, leans towards me and makes the comment (while SMIRKING no less): "How can the baby just moving hurt you?"

At that exact moment Cletus the Fetus actually stood upright in my womb, extended his little arm and gave his father the finger right before completing a back layout with a twist.

In stellar response mode V jumped completely off the bed, back stuck against the wall, eyes as big as saucers and yells, yes, yells: "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

"That, my dear, is exactly why I'm twenty-two seconds away from performing my own c-section."

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Ohmmm...

So with all the trouble I've been having trying to stay upright and alert in my impregnated condition, I've been told to relax, try to take it easy, and not get stressed out.

Last night I attempted to watch television while holding on to the right side of my bulging middle section and fighting back tears, convinced someone had shoved an invisible machete into my womb. Big V tried to get my mind off the excruciating pain by asking the world's stupidest questions of all time: "How do you feel?" "Are you ok?" "Do you want anything to eat?" When that wasn't proving to be effective he tried placating me by tuning the television to the Duggar Family show. Have you seen this? Smiling, pleasant, well-spoken mother of 18. Yes, EIGHTEEN! And she birthed every single one of them. And never has a negative word to say about anything, much less the blessing of pregnancy. This particular episode focused on the "Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth." Natural. As in no drugs whatsoever. Kudos to you, Mrs. Duggar, but I'll be ordering a double epidural straight up, with a tequila chaser. I've already packed my tip money.

Poor Dotter was nervous, you could tell because she kept running to get me things she thought would work, including an ice pack she insisted on holding directly to my stretched flesh. I tried everything: shifting positions, large glasses of water, the exercises Mrs. Duggar suggested, breathing techniques and a shower... the pain finally subsided around eleven o'clock.

At least I could finally try to get some much needed sleep. I have claimed six of the most fabulous pillows ever to be strategically placed around my body, under my abdomen, between my knees, against my back and holding my head. Big V has been left with the one flat joke of a pillow. (I really hope he can hold his head up straight again someday.) Once placed in my dreamy featherly fashion I fell fast asleep.... finally... I could r e l a x . . . .

Until Dotter came running in our room scared out her little mind at 3:30 in the morning... dog barking hysterically... I'm hitting V to "get up! get up!" (Like I'm going to go check out what has Satan sounding so flippin ferocious!) And I'm holding a shaking Dotter who happens to be squishing Cletus the Fetus which is making me feel like throwing up while V is staggering down the hall in his boxer shorts... and then I hear V talking - talking loud - and someone talking back to V and I'm all like, "Dude! It is not proper social ettiquette to come calling at this early hour!" But all I can seem to make myself do is reach over for my glasses so I can see who is about to murder me and my child.

Eventually V came back to the bedroom to check on our safety... ok, really he just stomped back into the room, muttering to himself, and flopped back down on his side of the bed.

"Uh... wanna tell me what that was all about?" I ventured.

"Damn police." And he's turning over pulling the sheet up to his chin....

"Uh, yeah, I'm going to need a little bit more than that."

Apparently, as V staggered down the hall to see what was upsetting the dog, he also noticed flashlights being shone through our windows from the yard... which is what Dotter saw when she woke up seconds earlier. Getting to the door he noticed figures dressed darkly walking around the house and in the driveway, the offending flashlights now directed into his eyes. It was our County Sheriff's Department attempting to serve an old warrant to someone who hasn't lived at this address in years.

Now, I'm not a police officer and certainly wouldn't want to offend anyone in such an honorable profession, but I can't help but wonder - coming from the side of logic and common sense: You have this person, this bad person, who used to live here, but then disappeared to a place that you don't know... all you have is this old address... but when you look at the address you see that a few years ago it was sold and this new guy bought it (and he happens to not have any outstanding warrants). The new guy not only bought it, but has been fixing it up, and has this truck that's registered in his name sitting in the driveway. Still, you wonder if maybe there's a chance that new guy might know bad person. Hmmmm.... maybe you should ask....

At what point does "let's descend on the home like some ballsy third world militia plotting to grab hostages in the black of the night" sound more logical than "perhaps we should stop by around 7 or 8pm when they're home and just ask?"

Sunday, August 2, 2009

You got something on your chin...

It's not everyone that can say they've completely blacked out in a church and vomitted all over themselves, resulting in being carried out of the church on a stretcher. But now I can say it! Been there, done that, people. What's next on my list?

Ok, ok, so you want details.... geesh, don't get so antsy.

Alright. At 33 weeks pregnant it's hard to find a nice dress suitable for a funeral, but I found one. A lovely black v-neck with a low key dark red design that just covered my knees. Threw on my black heels a second before I got out of the car and I was the epitome of "classy pregnant woman attends memorial." A few psalms, a few prayers, a few up and down moments and I was feeling the effect of lack of air conditioning. However, not wanting to draw attention to myself I decided that I should simply sit down and not attempt the long 'standing wait & walk through' of countless pews of communion.

A few minutes later I tugged on V's shirt sleeve to tell him I wasn't going to make it. I honestly assumed he'd say something along the lines of, "I was really looking forward to that wafer... can you hang on a few more minutes?" but he surprised me by taking one look at me and asking if I needed to go to the hospital. Perhaps he saw something I didn't. "I'm not going to make it," I whispered again.

Fast forward to what I remembered next and that would be me slouched over against some burly body in a church pew wondering why the color of V's shirt changed and wondering who the hell threw oatmeal all over my dress and what the heck was spewing out of my mouth.

It took me a second or two to realize the oatmeal was actually vomit that was still spilling out of my mouth. Oh, and vomit I did! Glancing down I quickly assessed I had at least a gallon of oatmeal looking gunk streaming from my left breast all the way down to my lap. Where it was pooling up. You know, like collecting. In a puddle. In my lap.

Thinking the best thing to do was get me out of the church pew the burly men (now recognized as local EMTs who were also in attendance) lugged me up and collectively hid/held the vomit from falling off my dress onto the carpet. That was very thoughtful, because who knew if there was a wedding planned for later that day? Can you imagine how ticked the bride would be walking down an aisle of stomach waste?

Sitting me down in a chair in the lobby the EMTs busied themselves with taking my blood pressure, looking in my eyes, pricking my finger in an attempt to squeeze out a drop of blood, all the while asking me important questions: Do you know where you are? Are you having trouble seeing? How many weeks along are you? Do you hurt anywhere? Do you feel the baby moving?

Important as all that was, there was a much more pressing matter on my mind: Communion was almost complete. The service was ending. Which meant any minute now a whole lot of people were about to walk by to gawk at me.

Lucky for me a bright orange, clunky stretcher arrived just in time! Now, if you ever find yourself being transported from a chair to a stretcher with a dress full of vomit, I suggest you nominate someone in charge of "Swear On Your Life You Will Not Let This Dress Go In Any Direction Which Would Possibly Show My Pregnant Thighs Or A Beaver Shot." I, unfortunately, had not nominated anyone. This led to a lot more stress and anxiety on my part as I tried to push down my dress and hold the oxygen mask while being shoved around and strapped down. In fact, as I was being wheeled out, I remember looking down and whining through my OxyMask, "my dress is crooked!" Because it is very important to maintain whatever is left of your dignity if at all possible.

The ride to the hospital was fun - although I feel somewhat cheated by the silent sirens. At least I got the flashing lights. There was also a tense moment when I thought no one was paying attention to the road and I about flew off the stretcher to grab the steering wheel myself (I was unaware there was a very quiet driver).

V sat next to me with the most scared looking expression on his face. I wanted to ease his fear a bit by reminding him that he couldn't possibly be a weenie in this situation since he spends the majority of his time watching scary movies. Please, a chic with some goopy stuff oozing out of her mouth was nothing compared to the happenings on Elm Street. But I just couldn't bring myself to be sarcastic to someone who looked so scared and had actual tears in his eyes. Looking at V it hit me that maybe this might not turn out so good after all. And that made me scared. Which made me decide that I didn't like that fearful, afraid look on his face and it won't be allowed when I actually give birth.

After attempting to strangle me with the oxygen hose... see, the EMTs forgot to disconnect the oxygen. This meant the hose and mask wrapped around my face and neck was still plugged into a nonmoveable connection in the squad. No matter how hard they tugged at the stretcher to get me out, my head could only go so far. They apologized, though, so it's all good. It's not like I started turning blue... except then they just left the hose dragging, so halfway down the hospital hallway it got all tangled up in the wheel of the stretcher, quickly forcing my head down and to the right at a sharp angle. After screaming that I was being choked - again - they fixed it.

In the end it was just treated as a simple, "You're pregnant, pregnant women get dizzy, this happens" diagnosis. Although I did make a mental note when the doctor explained "...when you lose consciousness it is quite common to also lose control of your bodily functions, causing you to vomit or have a bowel movement..." that vomitting was actually the better of the two possible outcomes.

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

I got a voicemail the other day from the hospital saying ‘since you’re the contact on record we just want you to know your Dad can get a Cov...