First task in motherhood: Birth Child.
I'm oh-for-one.
Oh-for-two if you count the pre-season game, which is Go Into Labor.
That's it, Cervix. You win round one in a shutout.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Dearest baby-
Hello, babychild. First of all, thank you so much for easing up on the whole vomitting business. Things are certainly more fun this way. Also, I appreciate that you appreciate Cactus Cooler as much as I do. What fun we have together after a tasty sip on ice! It's like Whack-A-Mole, only I wouldn't ever whack you, and I bet (hope) you're cuter than a mole. So, basically, bad analogy all around. It's just that you get so excited and bounce all around in your own private little inflatable playhouse, and I love it.
Had your 40 week appointment yesterday. You may remember that 40 weeks is theoretically the total length of your gestation, and not just a fun little rest stop on the way to becoming the first fetus to graduate from preschool in utero. Turns out I am a champ at providing perfectly comfortable living quarters for you complete with plenty of fluid and a nice, healthy, designer-grade placenta. You're welcome, Floyd.
The appointment involved several helpings of that cold, slimy gel slathered all over my tummy so we could hear and see you flopping around in there. It was worth it, though. You're cute, and we like your heartbeat.
We got to spend some time hooked up to a non-stress test monitor, which was actually pretty interesting. The paper rolls out of an ancient looking box with little jaggety lines all over it, and it's like you are a tiny earthquake or something! You got tasered, Floyd! (And let that be the last time.) The nurse brought in a gadget that sounded exactly like that buzzer in the game Taboo (just to keep things interesting, I guess, since your little heart rate was just too steady and rhythmical) and freaked you right the heck out. Daddy laughed for like 2 whole minutes and says he wants one for home.
Speaking of Daddy, your father said a swear word yesterday. Don’t worry; it wasn't your fault. It's just that after the ultrasound to make sure your swimming pool was adequately filled (check!) we headed to Su Casa for some spicy food because we really want you to come out. Daddy picked a fight with some melted cheese, and ended up with red enchilada sauce splashed all over his favorite white dress shirt. So he swore, which I felt was justified, really, because it is a nice shirt and enchilada sauce is hard to coax out.
I know you can't see much outside of your watery little pouch, but you should probably know that Daddy and I created perfectly adorable living quarters for you outside of my tummy, too. Daddy painted stripes, and I (gulp) put up butterfly decals on the wall. (Decals, sweet child! Decals in my house! It's like I'm finally a real Mormon!) Plus, I made you a quilt. There's even a little mobile over your portable crib in our room with small stuffed creatures that are either bears or dogs (can't decide) ready to dance you to sleep. BearDogs, Floyd! Quick, come see!
Anyway, little lovey, the point is that I understand that you are comfortable in there, and I suppose I can be patient. Please come see us and snuggle us and love us soon. Not to give you a deadline or anything, but the doctor said she's going to break your door down Sunday night and make you come out on Monday if you don't come out on your own. Maybe we could do it together before then, instead. Just a thought. I love you either way.
Love always,
Your Mama
P.S. BearDogs, Floyd!
Had your 40 week appointment yesterday. You may remember that 40 weeks is theoretically the total length of your gestation, and not just a fun little rest stop on the way to becoming the first fetus to graduate from preschool in utero. Turns out I am a champ at providing perfectly comfortable living quarters for you complete with plenty of fluid and a nice, healthy, designer-grade placenta. You're welcome, Floyd.
The appointment involved several helpings of that cold, slimy gel slathered all over my tummy so we could hear and see you flopping around in there. It was worth it, though. You're cute, and we like your heartbeat.
We got to spend some time hooked up to a non-stress test monitor, which was actually pretty interesting. The paper rolls out of an ancient looking box with little jaggety lines all over it, and it's like you are a tiny earthquake or something! You got tasered, Floyd! (And let that be the last time.) The nurse brought in a gadget that sounded exactly like that buzzer in the game Taboo (just to keep things interesting, I guess, since your little heart rate was just too steady and rhythmical) and freaked you right the heck out. Daddy laughed for like 2 whole minutes and says he wants one for home.
Speaking of Daddy, your father said a swear word yesterday. Don’t worry; it wasn't your fault. It's just that after the ultrasound to make sure your swimming pool was adequately filled (check!) we headed to Su Casa for some spicy food because we really want you to come out. Daddy picked a fight with some melted cheese, and ended up with red enchilada sauce splashed all over his favorite white dress shirt. So he swore, which I felt was justified, really, because it is a nice shirt and enchilada sauce is hard to coax out.
I know you can't see much outside of your watery little pouch, but you should probably know that Daddy and I created perfectly adorable living quarters for you outside of my tummy, too. Daddy painted stripes, and I (gulp) put up butterfly decals on the wall. (Decals, sweet child! Decals in my house! It's like I'm finally a real Mormon!) Plus, I made you a quilt. There's even a little mobile over your portable crib in our room with small stuffed creatures that are either bears or dogs (can't decide) ready to dance you to sleep. BearDogs, Floyd! Quick, come see!
Anyway, little lovey, the point is that I understand that you are comfortable in there, and I suppose I can be patient. Please come see us and snuggle us and love us soon. Not to give you a deadline or anything, but the doctor said she's going to break your door down Sunday night and make you come out on Monday if you don't come out on your own. Maybe we could do it together before then, instead. Just a thought. I love you either way.
Love always,
Your Mama
P.S. BearDogs, Floyd!
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fashionably late. Just like her mother.
I betcha she's looking everywhere for her car keys.
Or cell phone.
Or purse.
Must be especially difficult without voluntary control of her limbs. Plus, dark in there.
Or cell phone.
Or purse.
Must be especially difficult without voluntary control of her limbs. Plus, dark in there.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
To readers with love
Nothing exciting in this part of the woods [stop]
Am still pregnant [stop]
All is well [stop]
Am told pregnancy usually ends sometime [stop]
Am still pregnant [stop]
All is well [stop]
Am told pregnancy usually ends sometime [stop]
Will update when child emerges [stop]
(Please bless before Thanksgiving)
[stop]
Friday, October 9, 2009
Want to know the status of my cervix?
Don't worry, Floyd is still safely floating in my uterus. She seems pretty content there, actually. I'm just running low on blog inspiration for some reason.
Since Floyd doesn't seem interested in spicing up the blog with her debut just yet, we're going to play a game! Hooray! Quick, count yourselves off into 3 groups.
Just kidding.
To guess the date and time of Floyd's arrival and her all important stats, go here. (I'll have a better looking gadget on the side bar later when I'm on a computer that will let me do that.)
Winner gets... I don't know. Something cool. Perhaps visitation to see Floyd at the hospital, which is a pretty big deal since the new H1N1 precautions at the hospital are pretty strict. No coughing on my brand new child.
Since Floyd doesn't seem interested in spicing up the blog with her debut just yet, we're going to play a game! Hooray! Quick, count yourselves off into 3 groups.
Just kidding.
To guess the date and time of Floyd's arrival and her all important stats, go here. (I'll have a better looking gadget on the side bar later when I'm on a computer that will let me do that.)
Winner gets... I don't know. Something cool. Perhaps visitation to see Floyd at the hospital, which is a pretty big deal since the new H1N1 precautions at the hospital are pretty strict. No coughing on my brand new child.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Smarty Pants
What seems like many moons ago, my Schmoopsie nervously headed to one of those terrible testing centers to sit for his Life, Health, and Disability Insurance License exam for the state of Utah.
"No one ever passes these things on the first try," said his almost coworkers.
"Please hand over your cell phone, watch, jacket, underwear, and first born child," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what? He passed. First try! Hooray!
A couple of weeks ago, he went to a different horrible testing center to sit for his Series 6 securities license exam.
"At least you'll know what to study for when you have to re-take it," said his now-official coworkers.
"Excuse me, have you been strip searched yet, sir? It's mandatory," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what? He passed. First try! Hip hip hooray!
Last week, he went back to that second horrible testing center to sit for his Series 63 securities license exam.
"Already?" asked his coworkers.
"Good luck," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what?
I'm married to such a smarty pants.
First try!
"No one ever passes these things on the first try," said his almost coworkers.
"Please hand over your cell phone, watch, jacket, underwear, and first born child," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what? He passed. First try! Hooray!
A couple of weeks ago, he went to a different horrible testing center to sit for his Series 6 securities license exam.
"At least you'll know what to study for when you have to re-take it," said his now-official coworkers.
"Excuse me, have you been strip searched yet, sir? It's mandatory," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what? He passed. First try! Hip hip hooray!
Last week, he went back to that second horrible testing center to sit for his Series 63 securities license exam.
"Already?" asked his coworkers.
"Good luck," said the testing center proctor lady.
And guess what?
I'm married to such a smarty pants.
First try!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
My skills have been compromised.
There are certain basic skills which, once mastered, a girl likes to assume she'll get to enjoy for years to come. Bladder control, for example, even when faced with the unexpected sneeze. Ability to put on pants from a standing position, or to roll over in bed without the physical equivalent of an act of Congress. Reaching her toenails. That type of thing. I'm sure you understand.
Without subjecting you to grimace-inducing details, allow me to mention that none of the above are accomplished with any amount of grace these days. Just sayin'.
There is one slightly more complex skill of which I've always been rather proud. I am a champion, A-1, 5-star professional barfer. If you have to have someone puking their brains out in your car/home/close proximity, I’m not an altogether bad pick. (The opposite of my status on potential dodgeball teams, just for reference.) For one, I rarely do it. When the unpleasant opportunity presents itself (read: first 20 weeks of pregnancy) my abilities really shine. I never give false alarms, and never miss the vomit container of choice. I'm pretty quiet about the whole event, and relatively clean about it, too. I'll even hold my own hair back and prep my own toothbrush afterwards. As I mentioned to my little brother in his weekly email, I'm like the vomiting Bizarro-Tommy. In his entire 20 years of existence he's never made it to the Verbal Warning Of Other People Who Might Be In the Splash Zone/Identify The Target stage, let alone the more advanced Contain and Dispose stages. Amateur.
Now I plan on subjecting you to grimace-inducing details. Proceed with caution. (Side note: Dane Campbell, when you read this in 3-6 months, you should probably skip the next part.)
On our way home from a riveting Childbirth Education class last week, I was suddenly struck with the unfortunate and untimely urge to rapidly empty the entire contents of my stomach. Knowing we were not in possession of suitable containment apparatus (deduct 1 point) I immediately closed my eyes, tipped my seat back, and slipped into Plan B, aka Breathe Slowly And Swallow Frequently While Trying To Convince Yourself It's Just Heartburn.
Plan B failed in a big way.
I managed to recoup a tiny part of Plan C (Heave Into Partially Empty Paper KFC Bag, of course) for rounds 2-5 only. In extraordinarily uncharacteristic fashion, round 1 left me splattered, baffled, and emotional. And, according to Sweetie Pie, fragrant.
P executed the Nearest Gas Station Exit Strategy to perfection, and hustled inside to badger the attendant for some paper towels and a plastic bag. I attempted to initiate the aforementioned Contain and Dispose stages.
Operative word: attempted.
My award winning, multi-layered Puke Plan sadly did not contain a contingency plan of action for what happens when the soaked bottom of a paper KFC bag falls out and dumps rounds 2-5 all over my feet.
Without subjecting you to grimace-inducing details, allow me to mention that none of the above are accomplished with any amount of grace these days. Just sayin'.
There is one slightly more complex skill of which I've always been rather proud. I am a champion, A-1, 5-star professional barfer. If you have to have someone puking their brains out in your car/home/close proximity, I’m not an altogether bad pick. (The opposite of my status on potential dodgeball teams, just for reference.) For one, I rarely do it. When the unpleasant opportunity presents itself (read: first 20 weeks of pregnancy) my abilities really shine. I never give false alarms, and never miss the vomit container of choice. I'm pretty quiet about the whole event, and relatively clean about it, too. I'll even hold my own hair back and prep my own toothbrush afterwards. As I mentioned to my little brother in his weekly email, I'm like the vomiting Bizarro-Tommy. In his entire 20 years of existence he's never made it to the Verbal Warning Of Other People Who Might Be In the Splash Zone/Identify The Target stage, let alone the more advanced Contain and Dispose stages. Amateur.
Now I plan on subjecting you to grimace-inducing details. Proceed with caution. (Side note: Dane Campbell, when you read this in 3-6 months, you should probably skip the next part.)
On our way home from a riveting Childbirth Education class last week, I was suddenly struck with the unfortunate and untimely urge to rapidly empty the entire contents of my stomach. Knowing we were not in possession of suitable containment apparatus (deduct 1 point) I immediately closed my eyes, tipped my seat back, and slipped into Plan B, aka Breathe Slowly And Swallow Frequently While Trying To Convince Yourself It's Just Heartburn.
Plan B failed in a big way.
I managed to recoup a tiny part of Plan C (Heave Into Partially Empty Paper KFC Bag, of course) for rounds 2-5 only. In extraordinarily uncharacteristic fashion, round 1 left me splattered, baffled, and emotional. And, according to Sweetie Pie, fragrant.
P executed the Nearest Gas Station Exit Strategy to perfection, and hustled inside to badger the attendant for some paper towels and a plastic bag. I attempted to initiate the aforementioned Contain and Dispose stages.
Operative word: attempted.
My award winning, multi-layered Puke Plan sadly did not contain a contingency plan of action for what happens when the soaked bottom of a paper KFC bag falls out and dumps rounds 2-5 all over my feet.
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