Week 36, Day 6. I think it's safe to say that my blog has officially moved into the "All Baby, All The Time" catagory--catergory? Anyone know how to spell that? Is there a spell check on this thing? Anyone care?

 

I had my weekly doctor's appointment yesterday and things look good--better than good. I've been contracting all week long and it's paying off--apparently I'm dilated to 2 or 2 and a half (I'll take that half) and my baby is fast dropping, which is making my tummy just a wee bit smaller. I learned that I've previously been measuring about four weeks ahead of schedule. Cool, huh? I also met my New Doctor, who, sadly, does not have different colored eyes, but still seemed nice enough. She acted surprised that I haven't opted to have labor induced--I guess because the baby's so big?--but I honestly don't see a legit reason to just yet. And I'm not sure why eyes are so important to me when it comes to who's giving me medical care, but this lady had brown eyes and for some reason I'm very reassured by brown eyes, and that's got to be a good thing, at least for the five minutes it takes for the woman to deliver my kid. Hmmm...I wonder what the Labor and Delivery nurses look like.

 

Anyhoo, after my exam, I started contracting again, this time fairly regularly and not at all comfortably. I got a little worried that we'd be taking another trip to the doctor yesterday, but after a bath, a tylenol, a backrub, and a good night's sleep, the contractions are gone. My father-in-law had a great idea for getting labor started and I can honestly see it working like a charm: Go buy a bunch of liquor and have Caleb get completely wasted--I'll for sure need to go to the hospital the second he passes out. And it's a simple as that. He brought up a valid point, though, and I think that from here on out, it's probably a good idea for Caleb to limit his daily beer intake.

 

Today, though, I can walk, I can talk, and unfortunately, I can probably do a little laundry. Damn. I've got a long list of things I want to get done--excuse me, things I probably need Caleb to get done--before I go into labor for real. This list includes cleaning the ceiling fans and changing the air filters in the house, and I hadn't thought about it before now, but I think I'd like (him) to vacuum my car out, too. Yes, I'm aware that I've become a naggy pregnant bitch. I'll apologize later on in life.

 

As far as the baby goes, everything is ready...I think. I washed stuff. I folded stuff. We touched up the paint in the closet and found the nuts and bolts to the crib. What more could a little boy ask for? Perhaps a name? Yeah, well. Still a touchy subject. Caleb likes a few but he's having trouble deciding--at least Riddick and Wolverine are out of the running, and that's all I care about. I'd reveal a couple of our choices here, but the second I do that, then Caleb will change his mind, and I don't want to jinx anything.

 

My parents aren't too keen on a couple of the names we're currently debating--too "off the wall"...but then again, I don't think the names Cheyenne or Mia really thrilled them much, either. "You don't really want to name your daughter 'Mia', do you?" I remember my dad asking back then. This time around it's "How about a normal name like Joe, or John? Something he can live with?" I think it's so cute when my dad gives out his opinions, mainly because he so rarely does, and it always takes me by surprise (read: cracks me up) that he feels so strongly. Never stop sharing, Dad.

 

And by the way, for those of you truly wondering, it's "category".

 

Last night I ate the most delicious dinner at The Melting Pot. My fake maturity (probably mixed with a little fat-and-pregnant charm) won me a second date out with "The Ladies", as I call them--2 from my neighborhood, the rest from miscellaneous places but still nice enough. I could've easily stopped with the salad, but the whole idea of chocolate fondue kept me going. Good eatin', ya'll. I totally made a pig of myself, and I totally didn't care. I even had a virgin Pineapple Mojito.

 

I also learned over the course of the evening that there's a world-wide rice shortage. People are rioting and stores are rationing. Do I mention this because I'm just that socially aware? No, of course not. But it does just go to show you again how very right I was to make my kids eat their rice the other night at dinner.

 

Caleb and Mia and I went to the Arts Festival in downtown Oklahoma City yesterday--in the middle of the day, on a whim, just because we could. I secretly love having a husband who's not working. Anyway, it was fun. There was so much to see, and we couldn't possibly cover the whole park--after two hours and one porto-potty excursion, I was down for the count. But I think we got the major gist of the event--we saw booths and booths of fine art. I was so inspired--these people are charging $200 for a 5"X5" canvas piece of chicken scratch? Sign me up!

 

According to my trusty What to Expect When You're Expecting book, my baby is gearing up to make a move--and I can actually tell. Every night around 9:00, like clock-work, I start getting those pesky contractions. They're definitely uncomfortable--depending on what position I'm in, they can be a little painful--and there's been somewhat of a pattern to them the past couple nights. Sometimes I'll lie awake wondering if it's the real thing or not--for about 5 minutes, and then I fall asleep. They're all gone by morning. I've got a lot riding on the hope that I'll recognize real labor for-sure-without-a-doubt when it happens.

 

The book also says that the baby should be gaining roughly 2 more pounds in these last weeks; I'm not sure about this. I'm already as big as I can get; infact, I haven't noticed my tummy getting much bigger at all lately--it's actually sort of drooping, which, truthfully, disgusts me, but whatever. It's almost over. Any weight the baby puts on this month is just going to have to be squeezed into the already existing space--I can't possibly make any more room for him in there.

 

It just got yellowy-dark and very windy outside. Better scram. Have a good weekend everybody!

 

I'm not feeling intelligent enough this morning to write much more than a few updates. I'm trying to cut back on coffee so the baby doesn't go through severe withdraws when he's born; I'd rather him cry his head off inside my tummy where no one can hear him, rather than be the fussiest, crankiest baby in the nursery once he gets out. "Look at that kid! He's got the shakes!" "Yes, it's sad. His mother was an addict."

 

Cheyenne is back and all of my kids are safe and sound under one roof--my roof--and I've been sleeping a little better at night. She had a good time and didn't seem to be upset about her mee-maw. She's never been one to show much emotion, but her total non-chalance is throwing me off. We were preparing ourselves for the worst, but I guess everyone deals with stress and grief in their own way--if she wanted to cry, that would've been fine. If she wants to shrug it off, that's okay, too--I think. Is it?

 

Hmmm, what else...let's see...last night I tried something wild and cooked brown rice in apple juice. No one liked it. So I threw a bitch fit and forced them to eat it. "There are starving kids in Africa! (Little do you know, we could be starving ourselves by next week!) Eat the damn rice! Eat it all! No, you can't have the salt! No, you can't refill your water! Fucking eat the rice! Eat it!" I didn't neccessarily say all those words--but that was the lecture that was raging inside my head. Cheyenne was being particularly sassy and Mia was being insanely hyper (nothing new), so Caleb took over from there. Mia got sent to her room, Cheyenne got a good talking-to, and both the kids ate the (damn) rice.

 

I had a doctor's appointment Monday. The baby is fine. His growth is fine. Everything is FINE. Just clipping along at 36 weeks now. I'm not dilating at all, even though I've been having those annoying crampy contractions on and off--never regular, never lasting or worsening. I've pretty much learned to ignore them at this point. I'll probably ignore them all the way into a dramatic delivery on the side of a highway somewhere, and then we'll have to name the kid either "Saturn" or "Alero"--probably Saturn since the Alero has highly stainable cloth seats.

 

Too bad we don't drive a Bronco.

 

 

 

Sunday, Week 35, Day...4? Oh, who fucking cares at this point anyway. I'm not wishing for labor to happen at this very moment, but if at any given point in time after this next week it decides to start, that would be okay with me. I haven't packed any bags yet so as not to curse myself into a June birth, and I keep putting off the finishing touches on the "nursery", hoping that the less prepared we are, the more likely I'll be able to hold my baby by the middle of May. I can hardly think about anything except the pregnancy (so bear with me here for a while). I haven't even hit 20 pounds yet, so I figure I owe it to myself to take in all the freakin' junk food that I want. No more crappy peanut-butter and sprinkles sandwiches for me--I'm moving on up to chocolate syrup with a side of ice cream. Last pregnancy, last chance, right?

 

We've been talking a lot about recovery efforts and by that I mean "getting rid of all the weight I had gained pre-pregnancy," which, admittedly, was quite a bit. Yes, once upon a time I was a stone-cold fox...so, with that in mind, I'm already thinking about what kinds of torturous exercises I'll have to do to get back into 2003 shape. Damnit. I asked Caleb if he could handle having a smokin' hot wife again--after all, I'm not having any more kids so the extra fat could technically work as a deterent...but he assured me that with modern medicine and a little self control, he would be alright. I worried aloud if he would still love me for my mind, to which he sweetly replied, "everything that's there and everything that isn't--I love it all."

 

That's actually the second nicest thing my husband's ever said to me. The first nicest was "I've met some ho's, and you were a poor excuse for a ho when I met you." Flattering? I think so.

 

Cheyenne should be out in California having both great times and sad realizations right about now. As far as I know, the wedding took place yesterday; I'm not sure when Mike planned on telling her about his mom, but I assume that if the conversation gone down yet, then it will today. And I agree with all you people--he should be the one to tell her--especially since he can (coincidentally) tell her in person this weekend. As a mother, I want to be there to comfort her, but it's definitely not my place to break the news in its entireity...and I hope he does spare her a few of the ugly details...but again, not my place. Caleb and I will be here when she gets back to take the brunt of everything she's gone through in just 4 short days.

 

On the job front, Caleb's taken a laid-back approach this week. We've been swimming (in a 9X9 plastic three-ring pool), fishing in the neighborhood pond, gardening, lawn mowing, chit-chatting by our fire-pit under the stars...life's been great and I think he needed this. I hope it won't be too hard for him to break out of vacation mode when the time comes. My husband is one of those insanely lucky people who just walk in the light--I swear he's got this golden bubble surrounding him at all times, so that even when something seemingly bad happens to him, within a week, things are turned around and life's never been better. My little sister Katie is just like that and it makes me sick sometimes. Caleb's such a people-charmer. He'll be working again in no time.

 

---

 

A quick update: Cheyenne's grandmother did pass away Saturday evening. She was 50 years old.  She was diagnosed with MS over 10 years ago and was in so much pain to begin with; I hope their family takes a little comfort in knowing that she's in a place she's been ready and waiting for. Cheyenne has not yet heard about any of it, but sometime today before she heads back to Oklahoma, they'll have the talk. I hate to see my little girl sad.

 

Clarification: Barry made the trek to Oklahoma to salvage some of the business his company's afraid of losing because of the layoffs. (His efforts are futile, but we got a good laugh out of his total waste of time.) It was then that Barry met with a dealer that Caleb was particularly tight with. Barry tried to assure the dealer that the company was fine by saying Caleb had been fired for not doing his job. He proceed to run his mouth a little while longer before ending the meeting. This dealer, who knew the real situation not only from Caleb but also from a chat with the president of the company himself, called Caleb immediately after the meeting, and the rest goes from there. Caleb's pissed--but not as pissed as me, and I swear, if I knew what hotel Barry was staying at, I'd egg his rental car and slash his tires in the night.

 

Things for Caleb are looking up, though. After only 1 week, he's gotten more job offers than I can remember and probably a hundred e-mails asking for interviews; granted, some of them are crappy, and some of them are only mildly intriguing. But some of them actually seem worth checking into. On top of all that, he's got a bunch of local dealer asking him to work as a sort-of agent, or broker, if you will, to go between them and other finance companies for a finder's fee that could range anywhere from $1000 to $10,000 a pop. And that is something he could do on the side from home in addition to whatever other opportunity might come his way.

 

So. Cool.

 

I'm not feeling as pitiful today as I was yesterday. I was allowed to sleep until 9:15 this morning and Caleb has been taking care of a lot of the housework--I almost hate to see him find a normal job at this rate--I'm getting so spoiled.

 

Tomorrow I will drop Cheyenne off at the airport and leave her in the care of her uncle. From there they will go on to California. I was updated on my ex-MIL's progress this afternoon and things are looking significantly worse than yesterday--and it looked really bad, then, too. If the woman doesn't die, she'll be a vegetable for the rest of her life-supported life. I did tell Cheyenne that her mee-maw was in the hospital and that she wouldn't be able to make it to the wedding. "How bad is it?" she asked. "Because for her to be in the hospital, it's not just a little cold or something. Is she going to die?"

 

Jesus. I wasn't totally sworn to secrecy but I honestly didn't know how to answer that--so I gave her a lame "Well, your dad will know more than I do and I think he wanted to talk to you about her when you got out there. But do say a little prayer for her tonight." Cheyenne didn't buy it--I could tell--and she knew I knew more than I let on--and with that, she took the hint and stopped talking. It's going to suck so bad when she does find out the entire truth. I almost think it would be better for me to tell her rather than my ex, but that's his mom--his call. And I'm a little relieved I don't have to do it.

 

Today I'm having trouble remaining optimistic about, well, everything.

 

My friend Inka, who was scheduled to have a baby exactly one week after me, gave birth to her son yesterday via cesarean-section after a scary bout with pre-eclampsia. Last I heard, mother and baby are doing fine--and Daddy, too. They had everyone pretty worried there for a little bit. So congratulations to Mike and Inka and their new little guy--although it's a shame we can't plan on betrothing our kids at birth. We were counting on getting 2 fat cows and everything had they wound up with a girl.

 

My ex's mother, Cheyenne's grandmother, is in the hospital with a coma, and things don't look good. Apparently she'd been laying on her living room floor for 3 days with bleeding on the brain before anyone thought to check in on her. My ex is getting married Saturday, and Cheyenne was scheduled to fly out to California with his mom for the event. The plans aren't completely blown to hell; Mike's brother will be Cheyenne's escort instead, and yes, as of now, the show will go on...but I think they're all dealing with a fair amount of shock, grief--you name it. I can't imagine. I will have to say something to Cheyenne as far as an explanation on why her grandmother won't be coming; I have a feeling she'll know something serious is up and I'll have to come out with the whole story in order to avoid blatantly lying to her. What a horrible, sad situation.

 

Caleb was officially laid off Friday. We've remained as positive as possible about the whole mess--and let me tell you, it's a mess. What do you do when you're almost 9 months pregnant and you have NO INSURANCE? And that's only a fraction of the entire problem. Right now we're dealing with Caleb's old boss, who was demoted and who is now covering Caleb's old territory of Oklahoma, Kansas, and Missouri (speculation as to why Caleb had to lose his job, anyone?) This man--we'll call him Barry--decided that the best way to win over the business that Caleb had cultivated over the years would be to talk serious schmack about Caleb. Fortunately or unfortunately, he seriously underestimated the relationships that Caleb had been paid to develop with just about all his dealers--he got a call from one of them letting him in on what Barry had been saying, and I quote: "This man was attacking your integrity; he was defaming your character, and I thought you ought to know about it."

 

So much for keeping it professional. What the hell? So, Caleb politely called the president of his old company, who he was always pretty tight with, and respectfully put him in the know. We now wait for word from the inside as to what actually was said to Barry. I take small comfort in knowing he will probably crap his pants before he takes his bible-thumping, hypocritical foot and shoves it in his mouth after a conversation with the head honcho himself. I'd love even more to see Caleb finally give Barry a piece of his mind if not a punch in the face, although I know such dreams will never come true...but I really do hope he craps his pants.

 

I'm big and pregnant and emotional right now. I feel like a beached whale--and I say that with the utmost authority because I'm as close to a beached whale as any human's ever going to get. My least favorite activity? Rolling over in bed. Not such good times. I get pissed off easy. I can't sleep at night. I cry over everything; I miss my mommy. All Dogs Go To Heaven is a sad movie. Cheyenne looked at me funny. My grampy died 5 years ago. My husband rubs my back too hard. I forgot to buy spinach at the grocery store and I don't want to drive back because I can barely fit behind the wheel. I worry about my dad's health. I want to see my sister's promise ring. I miss my dog. I have to clean up after the dogs I still have. My hands are hot. Mia won't stop asking me for ice cream. I've officially cracked--and I'm done with pregnancy. I can't fathom going for 5 more days much less 5 more weeks.

 

 

 

I have a few moments before Mia and I are off to wait an hour to see my doctor for 2 minutes.

 

We did end up putting Shadow down Saturday. Between the time I wrote my last entry and the time the actual appointment took place, she had gotten worse; we were literally carrying her wherever she needed to go because her legs and feet had pretty much completely given out. So there was no debating about it; although, even as we drove to the vet, I secretly hoped the doctor would offer us some miracle medicine and talk us out of it. Caleb's dad, who we originally inherited Shadow from, flew up and we all got to spend a little time with her. She seemed to know what was coming and she seemed to be ready.

 

It was obviously a sad day...when we got to the doctor's office we had to weigh her, and I was shocked to see that she had lost exactly 30 pounds in the past year alone--she had been practically starving herself! I felt horrible. In the room, Shadow turned to look at each one of us, wagging her tail as if to say, "Guys, it's cool." When the doctor came in, I bolted; I totally bailed on Caleb and my father-in-law--but I was told she wagged her tail right up until the very end.

 

Today we feel a little better; the other dogs are clearly bummed--I've never seem them so calm. The girls accepted it better than Caleb and me. I can't get rid of this nagging sense of guilt, but I'm sure it'll fade, over time. The awful thing is, the smell is gone from our bedroom. The horrible, putrid doggy smell that I thought must've been imbedded in our carpet, so much that we were going to rip it out and burn it and install hardwood floors; the smell that penetrated our entire house--it's gone, which led us all to believe that poor Shadow had something majorly wrong going on inside of her--it never hit me. She must've been sick for a long time. I'm going to count on our other dogs simply running away in ten more years. I never want to go through this again.

 

I caught another baby bunny yesterday. It popped out of hiding when Caleb started up the lawnmower near a particularly high patch of beautiful purple wildflowers (read: weeds); the girls went nuts running after it, again, but it was I who completed the capture.

 

Just call me "The Rabbit Whisperer".

 

We decided, once again, to let it go, wondering if it had indeed lost its family in Sunday's Big Rabbit Upheaval..and worrying whether or not it would survive on its own out in the cold cruel world that is our yard.  If I catch it again, I'll consider it a sign and I'll keep it. Where? I don't know. The house is off limits, and bunnies kept in cages outdoors 'round here are notorious for becoming coyote food. So I'm praying that little thing stays completely camoflauged far away, thriving all on its own...We have absolutely no need for another pet of any kind.

 

Moving right along. Yesterday I took Mia to the playground and I saw someone not many people will ever see. A woman beside me (who was, coincidentally, enormously pregnant just like myself) had herself two adorable little boys; at first I paid no attention to them until I saw them side by side...in their wee little matching outfits (green and yellow John Deere caps, thermal shirts, overalls, and sneakers--freakin' cute!). It didn't hit me until their mother told me they were both 24 months old--they were twins! I did a double take. One boy was as tall as Mia. The other boy was no bigger than a one-year-old. He was a real, live, kid with Progeria--only from watching the Discovery Channel do I know that, in short, it's an extremely rare disease that ages a person much faster than normal. Most don't live to be 25 years old. The size, the facial features...it was so hard not to ask the woman a trillion questions.

 

All the sudden I felt awful--my biggest worry in life at the moment involves whether or not to allow Caleb to dress our son in a Gators onesie for the ride home from the hospital. And yet here was this lady, who sat knowing one son would soon be suffering major health problems before dying very young, and wondering if the next baby would be okay at all. The kid seemed to be perfectly healthy, but still...I guess I needed a little wake-up call. Then Mia started jumping from the top of a 4-foot plastic dog to the roof of its 4-foot plastic doghouse, and I decided it was time to go home and appreciate the good things in life--like wild baby bunnies that seem to be magnetically drawn to me.

 

Also on my mind is this book Cheyenne and I have been reading--"Chew On This: Everything You Don't Want to Know About Fast Food". It's by the same guy who wrote "Fast Food Nation" but for the life of me I can't remember his name and I'm not about to get up and go hunt for the book--if you're really interested, I know you can find it by the title just as easily as you can by author. Anyway, it's good reading--and I guarantee it'll keep you out of McDonald's for the rest of your life. Anyone with common sense knows that fast food just isn't healthy--it's got a ton of fat, a ton of sugar, and a ton of calories in just about any item on the menu. Cheyenne really bought into every point the book made. I'm mainly concerned with the part about where our meat comes from--and I mean even the stuff I buy for my family at the regular old grocery store. To think that I'm probably eating chickens that were fed not just cheap crap, but the cheapest crap imaginable, including other dead chickens! Growth hormones, cramped quarters, and a death that involves being dipped in either an electrified bath of cold water, or a scalding bath of boiling water. And all that I just said--that's putting it the neat, clean, and nice way.

 

Now I understand why people are making such a big deal about eating only organic stuff. Now, I can't even bring myself to raise a rabbit, so I'm certainly not buying a truckload of chickens anytime soon. But I am extremely motivated to find out where one can purchase a good-for-eatin', well-fed, and humanely-treated animal. I might have to resort to involuntary vegetarianism.