Things That Happened.

Last I left you, my dedicated @#%! friends, I was very pregnant and a little angry.

Rest assured, eight weeks later, I am no longer pregnant! Mini B

*throws confetti*

You may have already known that if you follow my instagram or facebook, and if you don’t, well you should be because then you wouldn’t have been waiting two months with bated breath for this press release.

Adding a tiny new member to the family was an easier transition than expected, although it helped immensely that Little A started part-time preschool so he’s out of the house three mornings a week.

*throws more confetti* holding

I also had a steady stream of help in the way of grandmas and paternity leave so I was rarely left unattended to deal with the two mini hell-raisers. But that’ll change next week

Please send bourbon.

The birth-by-induction was a wee bit harder than the first but I’ll tell you all about that someday. She’s here, she’s growing, she’s starting to smile for realsies and she’s pretty @$^$!@# awesome. I don’t even hate pink as much as I expected to.

I need to knock the dust of this old blog thing. Anything you’re interested in reading from me? I need ideas, otherwise you’ll get a whole lot of MY BABY IS CUTE SO SUCK ON THAT.

And I think I can be more interesting than that.




What’s the Deal Here, Guys?

Dear #%!# Mini B.

Is it because I didn’t write prenatal blogs about you like I did with your brother?

Is it because I threw caution to the wind this time and ate ham and drank coffee and soda and an occasional (late-term) beer with reckless abandon?

Is it because every kick, punch and cervix bounce over these last nine months didn’t earn you praise, recognition and squeals of WTF-induced excitement?

Is it because your room isn’t totally finished? Or that I can’t just say yes to the name?

WHAT’S THE DEAL, DUDE?! Continue reading


Kenya !@#% Believe It?

Fact: Below is one of the first posts I drafted when I started this blog almost 11 months ago. ELEVEN MONTHS AGO. And it sat in the draft pile week after week after week because sorting through 1500 pictures just seemed like too big of a chore. And then it got to the point where I forgot. And then it got to the point where if I waited a few more weeks, it would fall on the year anniversary of the trip. So here we are.

A year ago this week, I came back from the GREATEST vacation I’ve ever been on. GREATEST. EVER. I wrote a travel pamphlet in like fifth grade on Kenya and since then, I wanted to go to there. Never in my wildest dreams did I actually think it would happen. But it did. And I loved it more than I could have imagined and I am beyond thankful for the opportunity.

The country and the people and the atmosphere touched me in a way that still moves me. I felt incredibly homesick in the days after I got back home and I still get that pang. I’m not a stranger to homesickness – I grew up in Minnesota and every time I visit I still get teary when I leave, especially if I am flying. It was the only place I would cry over. Until last year. I was practically sobbing as the plane took off from Nairobi. I felt like a fool but I couldn’t help it. I felt like I was leaving a part of myself behind.

Little did I know I was bringing part of it home with me. And really, what were the %^@!$ odds of THAT.

Below is the original post, finally with photos.

Dear @#$* Baby,

You don’t need to know the how. You’ll learn that from TV eventually. But you should know the where. Because the where is awesome and you need to embrace your “roots”.

We made you in Nairobi, Kenya while on an epic vacation. The doctor is dating you a week later because apparently that’s how you measured at Week 13*. But I’m not the Virgin Mary and you’re definitely not Immaculate and Big A was 7000 miles away since we didn’t travel home together, so that’s a load of crap. We know the truth. Anyway, you’ve already been on safari, climbed a volcano and flown over the Atlantic. I wonder if I can claim extra air miles. I hope you’re grateful. It took me 30 years to get to Africa and you’ve already been there.

*Yep, I have had this draft written since Week 13.  It has seen more than its fair share of edits.

Check out some of the shit you were a part of…

Held a Baby Crocodile

Fed a Baby Giraffe

Saw Orphan Baby Elephants

Saw Amazing Scenes Straight Out of Lion King

Rode an Ostrich. And then ate one.

Saw Lion Cubs Wrestle

Climbed a Volcano

You also sort of helped fed a monkey and pet a baby cheetah but I can’t find the videos of those things.

We’re sort of hoping you come out half African, just so you know. And a terrific runner.

You also probably sucked in nutrients from a lot of Tusker beer (which may or may not contain formaldehyde) and smoke from several hookahs. Sorry about that. Earlier this year, we were debating how I could fly out and you could be born there, because how awesome would dual citizenship be? But we figured the 16 hours worth of flights may not be the most rational thing to do so late in the game.

But we’ll get you back there, someday. If not for you, for me, because for whatever reason, my week in Kenya causes me to be homesick for it and I miss it terribly. But at least you’ll be an everlasting souvenir.

To My Bubble Boy

DISCLAIMER: If you are looking for a standard Expletive Baby type rant and rage, please turn around and leave now. You may not find that here today. Apologies.

Dear %^@! Baby:

I want you to come on time, I really do. This is no time to procrastinate. This is your official two week notice. Please pack up your water apartment and vacate the premises in fourteen (14) days. You will be refunded your security deposit upon final inspection.

That said, it pains me to evict you. In the physical sense, OBVIOUSLY it will pain me to evict you, but I’m focused more on the figurative right now. You have been a model tenant, requiring zero calls to the cops for noise complaints. I’m sure that will change. I’ve gotten used to your late night ninja practice, wall-banging, drunken hiccups and booty shaking. I’ve grown (literally) to enjoy it.

It’s going to be odd not having that movement anymore. And if I do, I know it really is just gas now. And that’s gross.

It is a scary world out there and you’re safe and protected in your little uterine bubble. I feel like I can shield you from everything. You’re cozy and warm and fed and safe. I could keep you in a bubble forever, but the threat of being deflated by Costanza, mud wrestling with Stacy Keibler or ending up like this is just far too great a risk.

You and I have been a team, man.  You parasite away my nutrients and in return, I eat whatever the hell I want to.  You’ve given me a plethora of new excuses to use that have been accepted without question. It’s a bullshitting freedom I have never experienced before. And it’s amazing. TEAMWORK.

You’ve been an attention-getter without being seen, meaning the attention is on me. Anyone who knows me knows I sort of totally dig that shit. I’m the youngest, I am the only girl in my family, I was and remain a mo^&#%f$#%@^ng princess. Out of your bubble, the swooning gets passed to you. And not saying I’m not going to go banana sandwich over your little face, but no one will be looking at my little face anymore. What can I say, I’m conceited and selfish.

I appreciate the luck that you’ve brought me, courtesy of your father’s genes, however I know once you’re out it is no longer you and I against the world, it’s you and your dad against me. There is no hope for me after that. I will never win.

While you technically belong 50% to your father, for the past nine months you’ve been tied solely to me. You’ve been mine. I know you better than anyone else can. I know what you like, what drives you crazy, what makes you squirm. No one else knows you like I do. I am not really ready to share you yet.

I know you’ve been in there for 38 weeks/almost nine months/long enough, but I feel like it went by too fast and I am just starting to fully absorb and appreciate the experience. At the same time, it’s also felt like you’ve been in there so long I cannot remember my pre-fetus body. It’s an emotional tug of war, thinking it went by too fast and wasn’t long enough and that it’s time and you’re ready and I can totally see why women can be prone to depression after the fact.

I’m not going to get into the part about how we don’t know what we’re doing but we’ll always have your best interest at heart and blah blah blah. I was actually going to, but I started tearing up at work so, yeah, no, not going to happen. I AM HUMAN, AFTER ALL.

THIS IS ABOUT ME NOT WANTING TO SHARE YOU WITH ANYONE ELSE. About not being ready to let you out into the real world. Like I said. Selfish. Plus the real world? It sort of sucks.

So, Little Buddy, let’s spend the next 14 days enjoying each other’s company as you pack up to vacate. Things between us will never be the same. Things will be better, of course, but never like this. Let’s revel in the next two weeks together – indulging on our favorite things, poking each other, playing guess the body part and making your dad do anything and everything around the house as we sit and watch Storage Wars and So You Think You Can Dance.

And then you leave the building. On time. Fully packed. Taking your 20 pounds of gear with you.

You’re strong, you can carry it all out yourself. That’s why I’ve been drinking protein shakes.

Coming to Terms

I’ll be honest here. With Big A back home my blogging motivation has plummeted – hate to see what it’ll be like when Little A arrives! I am also trying not to freak out about the amount of things that need to be purchased, built, arranged, washed, cleaned, organized, prepped, made, packed, installed, hung, mowed, read, polished, kicked, pwned, sterilized, bleached, moved, etc before said arrival.

Speaking of the little parasite (EPIC SEGUE), he is full term today at 37 weeks! So, that’s neat. But keep that on the down low, because I don’t want him to know that he is technically able to make his move – I ain’t ready for that yet. I’m still hoping he’ll pop on the 4th…but I was pretty much told at my appointment on Tuesday to expect to go late. I THOUGHT THAT WAS A WIVES TALE. Which meant I had to change my submitted last day of work from “set in stone” to “tentative”. Not cool, man.

Here’s a terrible picture from this morning, with bonus cat.

Yes, even with someone in the house to take pictures now I still have to resort to mirror cell phone captures.

Fetal Fruit Comparison: Winter Melon. Again, much like the durian comparison, unhelpful. I only know winter melons exist because of my time with Farmville a long time ago, but that doesn’t help me with the size visual. All I see is a cartoon farmer and a field full of pixels.

Feeling…Large: This little bastard’s getting heavy. He’s starting to drop so the pressure is increasing in the front and I don’t like it. No, sir. I don’t like it. I’ve gained about 22 pounds overall which is good (really good, considering the amount of junk food I’ve had a penchant for), but man, that creeping scale is a scary thing sometimes.

Rude Awakenings: Lesson learned and then forgotten until learned again the next day – one should not, in my condition, wake up, stretch and flex ones feet. HOLY MOTHER OF CHARLIE HORSES DON’T F’IN DO THAT. But every morning, I do it. #%^@fw!

LIKE A CHAMP: I only woke up to pee once last night (my current standard is three) and I felt like Rocky. The boxer, not the squirrel.

Jagged Little Pills: My nightly medicinal cocktail is wondrous. Metamucil, Tylenol PM, pre-natal vitamin, DHA and Zantac. I may continue while beyond pregnancy with this one. Healthy, regular AND drowsy? SOLD.

Speaking of cocktails: I could really use one.

Booty Popper: Much like his mom, Little A apparently has a giant rear and knows how to use it. Often. He’s booty poppin’ and droppin’ it like it’s hot all the time.

At least he’ll have one of my assets.