How I Got Diabetes....

and other random thoughts for today.

1. I don't have diabetes...yet. But I've convinced myself that that is where I'm heading. Somewhere between not wanting to eat anything (aka pregnancy) and having a six month old, my eating habits have DRASTICALLY changed. I think, on the whole, I ate very healthily when I was pregnant, thanks mostly to Dustin who pretty much force fed me things like spinach and other equally healthy/gross foods. Then, when Kiz arrived, it all went to shit. A kid occupies ALL your time at this age. Every second is spent catering to the whim of a tiny tyrant who looks an awful lot like you. So you really kinda put yourself on hold for a while. (I'm assuming you regain yourself somewhere between potty training and college.)

I went from really taking care of myself to sometimes legitimately forgetting how long it's been since I washed my hair. On the rare instance I do put on makeup, I half ass it because it's been so long since I've done it I don't have the patience to do it right. I barely wear real clothes any more...right now I have on a winter themed, flannel, button down MEN's pajama top, a maternity tee shirt, American Eagle sweatpants from 1998, one ankle sock and one fuzzy sock. And I have already deemed this outfit acceptable as I took Kiz for a walk around the neighborhood yesterday wearing the SAME DAMN SHIT.

But for all the suffering of my outside appearance, I think my diet has suffered the worst. I was already not so great about good eating habits...but now it's just horrible. First of all, I never eat breakfast. The first thing I put into my body is Red Bull. Usually I'm washing down some benadryl with that because I have chronic hives. Through my day with the baby, I am just grabbing something that's already made and that I can eat with one hand. Usually a donut, a roll, a hostess snack, a piece of bread...anything that's quick and easy. Then we often skip dinner because by the time Dust gets home from work, the baby is already spiraling into her bedtime cranky party and by the time THAT show is over we are exhausted and go to sleep.

And that's it. VERY rarely, I get ambitious and make a decent dinner, but I often regret it due to the amount of dishes I have to do afterwards (usually the next morning) while the baby cries at something random, like the fridge.

So since all I eat is sugar and liquid sugar, I'm definitely going to get diabetes.



2. I'm starting to think that being a parent is the same thing as the entire world gathering on your front lawn to give you the finger. It's like, you're happy everyone showed up, but sad because everyone hates you. Every single effing time I think I'm doing a good job and have this parenting thing down pat, something really awesome happens to ruin it all...like teething. This is just re-God-Damn-diculous at this point. We had finally established a good routine: sleeping for a long time at night, eating different foods, taking scheduled naps...and then BAM...it's all gone because of two teeny tiny teeth.

Kiz has decided that she fucking hates her new teeth. If she had the mobile dexterity, I'm absolutely postive she would have ripped them out of her jaw bone by now. In addition to hating her teeth, she also now hates sleeping, eating, burping without spitting up and anyone who gets in her dance space.

I know the lack of sleep and fussy eating is because her mouth feels like shit, and I know the extra vomiting is a result of all the mucus and drool from her new mouth residents...but the being scared of everyone is a new development that I'm pretty sure isn't related to teeth.

Kiz has come to believe that everyone who isn't me or Dustin is trying to kill her. Grandparents wanna snuggle? Nope, Kiz is gonna cry and make them feel like garbage. Little kid wants to say hi? Nope, Kiz is gonna scream until the other kid is crying too. Cashier at K-Mart wants to look over at you and tell you you're cute? Nope...too much eye contact. Total meltdown.

So yeah. All that is awesome.

3. My 32nd birthday is tomorrow. Earlier this week I spent a good 20 minutes legitimately trying to figure out how old I was gonna be this year. I had to do math and shit. I imagine that the panic and anxiety that I felt in those 20 minutes is akin to the beginning stages of "old person crazy." Something to look forward to, I suppose.

4. We now have so much baby crap in our house, it looks like the playroom at McDonald's. All this colorful stuff that looks like fun but is probably covered in spit up. Since Kiz doesn't get much interaction with the outside world or people besides her parents, I worry about her development and make it a point to be sure she's interacting with age appropriate toys and bouncers and all that shit. I've never been overly organized or good with a schedule, but ever since the kid arrived, that's changed. I find myself being rather rigid with her schedule, especially during the week when I'm alone. But anyhow, every few weeks I'll panic that she's not getting the proper interactions/physical challenges and we end up buying her a new something colorful that promises to make your baby awesome. Kiz doesn't much care for anything we've purchased, rather she likes to play a game called "let's see how long it takes them to come rescue me from this contraption if I scream as if I'm being eaten by sharks."

5. Sometimes the cat looks over at me and I know that she's thinking she hates me and new, louder, tinier me.

6. The other day, I was playing on the floor with Kiz when out of the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like a thick shoelace. Then it started crawling. It was the hugest centipede I've ever seen. I think it was in training to be a snake. Dustin was at work so I had to get rid of it. I scooped it on a huge folder and threw it outside. The only time I put an insect outside is if I surmise that killing it would result in more guts than can be cleaned in one grab and a loud crunching or squishing noise as accompaniment.

7. I think it's time someone invented either the flying car or smell-o-vision. I'd be equally happy with either.

Little Human

Man, it's tough to find the time to do this. My life has gone from a year of whirlwind firsts to a never ending Groundhog Day style existence.

Kismet Ivy is rapidly approaching the half year mark and honestly I can't believe how much time has passed since her birth. I felt like it was an enormous struggle to get to the point where I could actually take a brief second to enjoy my daughter. Mostly that was because of the colic.

Ahh, the colic. It's sort of become a curse word in our house. Amazingly, THANKFULLY, the horrendous experience that was colic ended as abruptly and mysteriously as it began, pretty much exactly three months after Kiz was born. Everything we had read about the subject had promised that this would be the case, but it was hard to imagine when you're in the midst of a screaming, miserable state of affairs. The most reasonable explaination I've unearthed on the topic states that there is a missing "fourth trimester" in pregnancy; that babies actually need to gestate for 12 months rather than nine, but due to the fact that their heads would be too large to pass through mama...and let's face it, it's already a nightmare situation as far as those measurements are concerned...they have to come out at the nine month mark. Some babies deal with their early eviction well and some, like Kiz, scream and cry for three months, demanding to be put back in.

Through the colic experience, I was convinced that something was wrong with Kizzy. Autism, brain defect, sociopath...I had labeled her in so many ways that I was starting to consider filming my own version of Girl, Interupted. But amazingly, once the colic ebbed, a kid who was on a pretty good routine emerged.

The colic used to start at about 6pm. She still gets a little crabby at that time, but it's due to the fact that she's tired and bedtime arrives between 7 and 8 every night. And...holy crap...she sleeps through the night. We still have the random night where she'll wake up at 2am and want to eat, but for the most part we're getting 10 to 12 hours from her. And it keeps getting better. It seems each day she's waking up a bit later...last week she was up at five, this week it's six. I'd love it if we could make it to 7; I feel like that's an acceptable time to get up. At least daylight savings has made the sun rise a bit earlier so I don't feel like a Zombie for the first hour of my day.

As it turns out, Kizzy is a pretty happy kid. She has learned, unfortunately, and unavoidably, that yelling gets her what she wants, but we rarely have a full blown cry. The only time we get tears is when she's in pain and thankfully that's not too often, especially now that we have discovered constipation can be cured by prunes.

Her newest bad trait isn't really all that bad...stranger anxiety. Any unfamiliar person to come close to her is treated to a loud wail for a few minutes. Thankfully, she gets over that pretty quickly. Secretly, I sort of enjoy this behavior because she settles down once Dustin or I get her in our arms. We like that she loves us best.

We started "solid" foods, and so far the only thing that isn't a hit is peas. I can't say I blame her...they aren't very tasty. Bananas are the favorite, but sadly she only gets those once in a blue moon as they contribute to the dreaded constipation.

On her own, Kizzy decided she loves water. Usually water isn't started until six months or so, but we indulge her. At first because it was funny to watch her reach for the water bottle (the very first thing she reached for) and now because it helps with...you guessed it...constipation.

She's starting to be a little human...she grabs for things, pushes things away, yells in frustration, hugs her stuffed animals, imitates things and is so much more alert than she was just a month or two ago. The first time I saw something really humanesque was this past weekend. My littlest brother, Devin, likes to blow raspberries at Kiz when he sees her. He had done this approximately 100 times on Saturday. Then on Sunday morning, when Kiz saw Dev, she blew a raspberry at him and smiled. It's the little things.

The only thing I have to complain about is my own selfish need to be a big human. As much as I love Kizzy and am beyond thrilled to be a mom, it's still a tough adjustment. You always hear that being a parent is a full time job, but it's more than that. It's non stop. Every minute of my day is filled with her. She is an intense person, not really ever content to just sit and chill. Besides the never ending parade of bottles, spit up, diapers and other baby needs, Kiz needs constant entertainment. From the moment I wake up it's a race to bedtime. On the rare moment that she naps, I'm trying to keep my house from developing into an episode of hoarders. The most relaxation I get is the brief hour that falls after her bedtime and before mine. It's this hour that I treasure. Dustin and I can sit back and watch a little tv...quietly. Then before I know it I'm falling alseep on the couch and Dustin is gently waking me up to go to bed for real. Then before I know it, it's morning and it starts all over again.

Of all the things I miss before my parenthood days, I think I miss the freedom to do whatever I want on a whim. Instead of taking 45 minutes to prepare to leave the house, I fondly think of the days where Dustin and I could sleep in, go get some coffee whenever we roused, and pretty much just do whatever our hearts desired.

All that has been replaced by a higher calling...and I'm happy to do it...but if you're without kids, savor the moments you have to yourself. You'll never know how much you loved them until you're pooping and an infant is at your feet in her excersaucer, watching you and laughing.

The weather is getting warmer and my eyes are set on the prize that is Summer. Kiz should be crawling by then...and we live in a community that rests on a lake...with a private beach...and at least then I can just bring her there every day for a swim and some sun.

So there's a little glimpse into our lives at the moment. I'm off to pull the ice cream cone cupcakes I'm making out of the oven and get ready for the best hour of the day.

The Time That Was and The Time That Is

(Title stolen from How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn)

I have to say, this is the first time that a New Year has meant something for me. Up until now, I was sort of just rolling through life, accepting the tiny changes that come along with barely a batting of the eye. It wasn't until my life was completely upheaved that I realised how quickly everything can be different. Sure, I've had my share of life changing events...parents divorcing, going far away to school, moving in with someone, etc...but that lame ass song "A Baby Changes Everything" is really the most understated sentiment ever uttered.

As everyone continually promised me would eventually happen, Dustin and I seem to be on the verge of getting used to our new lives. We spent so much of 2011 in a sort of dryer cycle...constantly getting flipped upside down and sort of bashing into life blindly. When you're in the middle of turmoil and stress, you don't ever really see your life outside of it. When you're on the other side, and you have a moment to breathe, you're almost thankful for it. It's kind of like if you never felt sad, you'd never experience happiness because there would be no peaks and valleys. When Kizzy is older, I'm looking forward to using the story of how she got her against her when she's bad. I also take comfort in the fact that if my relationship with Dustin could survive the very worst of times then we're in for a long and happy life together.

If we didn't already have the proof that our lives were completely different from where they were a year ago, our Christmas adventures solidified it. Last year Dustin and I had our first Christmas as a living together couple. It was quiet. We visited bars with our friends, shopped for presents casually, slept in on our days off. Christmas last year fell right before we were about to find ourselves unemployed as the radio stations we worked for were about to switch ownership. Last Christmas we were a month away from being pregnant...and about five years away from even thinking about being pregnant. We were talking about all the things we were going to do with our free time. We had each gotten some severance and talks of taking a trip were in the works.

We were also moving out of our apartment and into the bad decision known as the cottage on my mother's property. The last week we were in the apartment, we conceived our little monster. Of course we didn't know about it until the end of February, and I still chuckle to myself thinking about how I moved couches and painted our new place not knowing I was pregnant.

As this blog has detailed, the year that followed was by far the craziest year of my life. When I think of what was important then compared to what is important now, it blows my mind. Here are just a few things that now occupy my thoughts instead of which bar we were going to have a drink at after work.

Germs: I seriously never thought about germs before Kiz arrived. Even when I was pregnant I didn't really worry too much about getting sick, other than the morning sickness that never really presented itself. Now, my world revolves around keeping this kid healthy. Every sneeze, hiccup or hard fart is a concern for me. We just experienced the two month vaccinations and it was the first time we saw our Kiz a little bit sick. She ended up running a fever and had some diarrhea. Watching your little 10 week old baby suffer is seriously torture. It was bad enough watching the nurses hurt her and not being able to explain that it was for her own good, but in the days that followed, I've given myself an ulcer worrying about how she is fairing. To make matters worse, she was SUPPOSED to get her shots BEFORE we brought her on our first trip to LI to be exposed to all of our family's germs. The morning of her appointment, the battery died in our car and we had to reschedule for AFTER the trip. Bringing her around all those people sans vaccinations was enough to make me feel sicker and sicker with every doorbell we rang. We instituted a "look but don't touch" policy at certain family member's houses. That went over like a fart in church. Certain people took it very personally. Oh well. I made her, I make the rules.

Poops: Never in my life have I spent so much time analyzing human excriment. When I poop, it's lucky if it gets a quick glance, and that's only because of the fact that corn doesn't digest and we've been eating a lot of crock pot beef stew. From frequency to consistency to smell to how Kiz looks when she's struggling with a dook, all I do is worry about her poop. The two worst poop days included the day Kiz went without pooping (she had a massive crap the next morning) and last night when she had di dis. At some point along the way I read something about how quickly a baby can dehydrate and knowing how much I hate IV's on MYSELF, I woke myself up every hour last night to force feed my kid. Then I wondered why she was pretty much gagging on her breakfast bottle. Poor kid. (For the record, she had a normal poop today. YAY!)

Temperature: I am a sweaty person. Even when I was much thinner, I ran a little hot. It's a trait everyone on my mother's side shares. We joke about it. If my mother and I attend anything in the summertime that takes place outside, we look like drowned rats. It's something we all hate but live with. Dustin is the opposite. He's very chilly all the time. Sometimes when he's getting undressed for bed at night I am shocked to see that not only was he wearing his flannel-lined jeans and two pairs of socks, but also a pair of pajama pants. I would literally die if I dressed like that. I'm a shorts and tank top girl, even in the middle of winter. As it turns out, Kiz takes after me. She hates being swaddled, will kick off any blanket draped over her and wakes up ridiculously sweaty in the middle of the night. For whatever reason, every single house we visited this Christmas was like being inside of an oven. I would be sweating within seconds. Then I'd look down at my little bundle, all dressed cute in her Christmas attire, and realize she was miserably hot too. She'd whine and cry until we peeled off layer after layer until by the end of our visit she was in her diaper...and ONLY her diaper. Only one distant aunt of Dustin's commented on it...saying something along the lines of "put a blanket on that baby!" This comment came at the end of our Christmas visits when I had already lost about a gallon of water due to sweat and I think I replied "I KNOW MY KID AND SHE IS SWEATY. I WILL NOT BE PUTTING A BLANKET ON HER." There were no more comments after that.

Bathing: Getting clean has suddenly become very unimportant for me and very important for Kiz. As Dustin joked when we were in the hospital "This family needs lotion." We all suffer from very dry skin, even Kizzy at like a day old. Every time we go to the doctor they comment on her little dry patches. Aside from slathering her with A and D ointment, which gets greasy and messy, there's nothing we can really do about it other than limit the amount of baths she gets. This is a shame because A.) she loves the bath and B.) there is nothing grosser than "milk neck." As previously described, "milk neck" is the term I've coined for the cheese that grows in the folds of a baby's neck from milk trickling down her chin and into her fat folds. I don't care how dilligent you are about your baby's cleanliness, this happens to all babies. Mostly because when you feed a baby in the middle of the night you aren't really awake and trickling is bound to happen. We give Kiz frequent "whore baths" where we just wipe her down as best we can. And it's usually as I'm obsessing over HER state of cleanliness that I realize it's been DAYS since I cleaned myself. Days. Prior to Kiz I showered every day, sometimes twice a day because my office was sweaty. Now taking a shower is like an epic event in this household. Side note: Kizzy gets dirt under her fingernails. WTF? Is she digging ditches outside while I'm asleep? As far as I know all this kid does is loaf around. If she's holding out on me and is actually able to be more productive then I'm not wiping her ass ANY MORE.

Sleep: Before the kid, sleep was something that just happened. I don't really ever remember looking at a clock and being like "oh, I have to go to sleep." Dust and I would just sort of end up asleep in bed somehow, as if by some sort of coma magic. Now my life revolves around how much sleep everyone in this house gets. Dust and I constantly quiz each other on how much sleep we think we got the night before. Sometimes I think the baby sleeps too much, sometimes too little. We watch the clock and get anxiety over her naps or the lack there of. Yesterday she slept all day and I worried she wouldn't sleep at night (she did.) A week ago she was up all day and I worried she would sleep too much that night (she didn't sleep at all.) I panic when Dustin doesn't get enough sleep because that means he won't be able to help me with the baby. He panics when I don't get enough sleep because that means I'm going to be a crazy sobbing mess. They need to invent something that is safe and keeps you awake. Red bull isn't cutting it and I think they'd take the baby away if I started doing meth. Everyone told me to get as much sleep as I could before the baby got here. I should have really listened.

As much as I worry and panic and act like a lunatic, I really do feel lucky. I am looking forward to 2012. I am looking forward to settling into some sort of routine. I'm excited to watch Kizzy grow. I'm happy to have an amazing, infinitely patient husband who loves me even when I'm being ridiculous. I'm happy we have a house and a yard and a large supply of caffinated beverages at our disposal.

So bring it, 2012. After 2011, I'm ready for anything.

Kizzy the Jerk

...we love our daughter more than anything...but seriously, this kid can be such a DICK.

Kiz has passed her two month mark, which for me was a big milestone. All of the parenting books (aka "panic guides") I've read so far have indicated that after two months, cool shit starts to happen and slight illnesses aren't as devestating. Which is good because I think I'm coming down with a cold.

I just read another blog, Assholebaby.com. I identified so much with a lot of what this guy is talking about. There's something very comforting about realizing that everyone else in the world has gone through what you're going through. I was comforted by this thought during my pregnancy and am again now as Dustin and I try to muddle our way through raising what we now refer to as our "practice baby."

The first week of Kiz's life, she was an absolute angel. I remember boasting to my father and stepmother that she never cried and only woke up to eat. They had had a "problem child" situation with my half brother, who apparently didn't sleep through the night until he was six. My father and stepmother laughed when I reported back to them the details of Kiz's behavior perfection and replied that they "hoped it stayed that way."

Well, it fucking didn't.

We started to experience Kizzy's new, horrible lifestyle late in her second week of life. She would be her normal angelic self during the day, but at 7pm, every night, as if someone flipped a switch, she would start to freak out. Screaming, crying, flailing her little hambone arms as if trying to punch us, kicking her legs violently...pretty much just having a baby meltdown. The first few nights it happened,I convinced myself that the kid was dying. Her shrieks were so loud and so ENDLESS that I could only see pain being the reason. She would carry on for hours upon hours...sometimes as late as 3 or 4 in the morning...then suddenly she would pass out. She could be mid scream, wide eyed and flailing one second, and then completely out the next. It always started and ended the same...no warning other than the hands of the clock.

We, of course, mentioned our little darling's behavior to our doctor, who diagnosed her with reflux, something I'm on the fence about. It does seem like from time to time she's suffering from heartburn...she'll bring up some fluid and wince in pain...but I'm not fully convinced that that's what's causing her nightly freak outs. Mainly because she was placed on medication at two weeks old and it didn't stop her from losing her mind at 7pm every...fucking...night.

The doctor also mentioned the dreaded "C" word at her two week...and one month checkup...and said that sometimes babies just cry for no apparent reason and we should be thankful that it isn't all day. That seems to be the category we fall into.

As a new parent, you're already exhausted. Babies need to eat ever two hours. At least my baby does. We can't give her more than two ounces at a time or she barfs. (Another reflux sign, and we learned this only through trial and error. One time I laid the baby down to sleep all cute with Daddy after eating a good four ounces. Dustin ended up with four ounces of vomit in his beard and mouth.) So combine the need for the baby to eat every two hours with the fact that I wake up every fifteen minutes or so to make sure she hasn't fallen victim to SIDS and the result is really...really...REALLY tired new parents.

I'd love to say that 8 weeks later we have adjusted to this lack of sleep. We haven't. I still have moments of sleep deprivation craziness. Usually it involves sobbing and being really angry...but as mentioned in a previous post, sometimes it includes delusional moments of seeing phantom racoons and chasing them around the house. We've both fallen asleep feeding the baby, which results in a pissed off, soaking wet kid. The house has become so messy that we sometimes hum the "Hoarders" theme music instead of lullabys. I've drank my weight in red bull and Dustin gets coffee jitters.

Now before I start sounding like a blog for birth control, I will say that there are indications that things are getting better. The doctor said that colic should start to subside around three months. (Of course it could go on much longer, but I refuse to accept that that will be our case.) One of the indications that colic is getting better are the appearance of "good" nights. We've had a few of these. A "good" night is when instead of screaming her head off and demanding to be carried around by Dustin like some sort of grumpy princess in a never ending parade around the house, she mearly fusses and sometimes yells out in frustration for a few hours before falling asleep. We've also noticed that "fussy time," as we've dubbed it, now stops no later than midnight. This might not sound like progress, but when you've been up with a shrieking kid from seven pm until four am, it's amazing.

And for the record, we've accepted all unsolicited advice when it comes to soothing a colicky baby. We've swaddled, rocked, used gas drops, tried to let her cry it out, bought a swing, gone for walks, gave baths, shushed, pacified, ran a vacuum, given her to relatives to hold, tried to overstimulate and understimulate...it's true colic because nothing works for more than a moment. Actually, the bath works, but you can't keep an 8 week old in a bath from seven pm to midnight...but don't think we haven't been tempted and perhaps continued the bath until the water was cold and she was complaining because of THAT.

One of the things we actually enjoy about this kid's antics is that she already has a personality. It's sort of like some great cosmic puzzle trying to figure out what she wants...and then when you do it's one of the best feelings in the world. I've now figured out most of her cries. I know hungry, tired, uncomfortable and bored. It impresses Dustin when I know what she wants. For example this morning she uncharacteristically woke up early and was uncomfortable. I did the mommy fumble of checking her over while half asleep and discovered that her foot was jammed up in a weird position. After an adjustment, she was fine.

Dust and I are also proud because we've managed to get this kid's days and nights straightened out. Once the horror of fussy time ends, she's good to sleep for the night. And when I say "sleep for the night" that means being up every two hours to eat but then immediately going back to sleep. And she'll continue this pattern until about 10am the next morning, which allows us to get some rest, even if it's constantly interrupted rest. And more recently, she's been sleeping for nearly four hours right after fussy time, probably from being fucking exhausted from acting like a shithead for five hours straight.

We suffered a breastfeeding setback at five weeks and had to switch to formula. I won't get into the reasons why we had to stop, but I will say that I feel formula guilt. I know she's fine...she actually prefers the stuff, which I think smells like metallic dirt...she's gaining weight and doing all the things a two month old should do, but I sad I wasn't able to continue with the breastmilk.

We also cosleep. I hesitate to mention this because of the stigma attached, but I believe it's a parenting choice. We do it safely, and I'm really not interested in everyone's fucking cosleeping opinions. Everyone has a stance on it...and honestly when I was pregnant, it wasn't even a debate for Dust and I. We always wanted to sleep family style for as long as it's not weird. Everyone is entitled to do whatever is best and safest for them. For us, the method all three of us prefer does not include a crib.

The latest development is smiling. And not the involuntary "I just farted" smiling that I mentioned in the last post. These are honest to God, "hey I'm happy to see you" smiles. Even better, when she wakes up for the day, she's often at her smiliest. There's something really great about the three of us waking up smiling and happy to be with each other.

Of course Kizzy's smiling usually stops after a few minutes because she's effing starving and soaking wet.

So basically that's where we find ourselves. I'm dreading/looking forward to the holidays because we plan to drive back to Long Island for them. I'm dreading because she'll be getting her next round of shots on the 21st and might get a reaction, she has never been in the car for more than 45 minutes and that seems to be her threshold as she screams to get out of the carseat, most of our holiday activities occur during prime fussy time, I'm scared of all the germs she will come into contact with and we'll be staying with my dad and stepmom and I don't wanna ruin their holiday because of a screaming kid keeping them up all night.

On the other hand, I haven't gotten to show this kid off yet and I bought her some really adorable Christmas dresses.

(Side note: Remember when I said I wanted a boy? I'm on board now with a girl...mostly because of the outfits. I had no idea that I had such an affinity for pinks and purples.)

I'm gonna close on a vain note. Of course, EVERY mother thinks their baby is beautiful, but Kizzy is especially gorgeous. Her hair is coming in blonde, her eyes are a really beautiful crystal blue (we've been told they won't change...the doctor commented on their intensity and noted that that means they will remain light) she has Dustin's full lips and almond shaped eyes framed by the longest eyelashes ever and my big rosy cheeks (face and butt.) She has delicate little seashell ears and long fingers. She somehow avoided inheriting Mom and Dad's larger than average sized noggins. She did get a strawberry birthmark, but it's where the sun don't shine so she lucked out. She also gets "milk neck." If you're a parent you know what I mean. If not, it's when formula or breastmilk gets caught in your infant's chubby neck folds and you don't notice until you smell it. It's as gross as it sounds.

Her appearance makes sense. Most beautiful people have really shitty attitudes. Here's hoping that Kiz doesn't turn into an uggo once the colic is gone for good.

A BABY STORY

This blog has, unfortunately, been the furthest thing from my mind for the past month or so. Taking care of a newborn while recovering from a difficult labor/c-section is all consuming. Still, I made a promise to myself and to my daughter that I would document this journey...and I'd be a big boner face if I didn't record the most monumental portion of it before the memory fades from my mind and I start having crazy ideas...like getting pregnant again. In fact, I am hoping that this particular blog will act as sort of a birth control once the horror of my experience ebbs into what all of these other lying mothers out there fondly recall as the "happiest day of their lives."

Kismet Ivy Werner-Fazio. Born October 19th, 2011 at 2:43PM. Seven pounds, One ounce. Eighteen and a half inches long. These are the facts everyone eats up when a new human joins us on earth. These little descriptions are the first hairshirts we wear in life. Short. Simple. Adorably tiny. But these little facts do absolutely NOTHING to describe the journey to the miracle of life. They pay no homage to the incredible emotions one experiences in the moments leading up to the life changing event that begins with that first pissed off scream from your newborn child.

On October 14th, Dustin and I did something that was all at once crazy and perfect. We drove to Binghamton with his grandmother in a horrible monsoon and got married. To each other, not his grandmother. It was something we both wanted very badly, but hadn't been able to actually do due to many reasons. We must have been a very funny sight; I've only seen one picture taken on that day (there was an entire camera's worth) but I look like a moose. A very happy moose, but a moose none-the-less. It was a perfect day.

The following Tuesday, four days later and just a little over 37 weeks pregnant, I had a routine prenatal appointment. As mentioned in an earlier post, for those of you who have not taken the journey yet, for the last six weeks of a healthy pregnancy, you see the doctor once a week to make sure everything is still going according to plan. And up until this appointment and my broken pelvis, everything HAD been going according to plan.

HAD been.

My appointment started off normally, if not a little paperworky as I had to switch my insurance over to Dustin's now that we were married. The first thing they do at my prenatals is take blood pressure. Mine had been on the normal to low side throughout the pregnancy. This time, however, the reading the nurse got initially was 198/92. MONSTEROUSLY high. Alarmed, she took it again. Basically the same high reading. She called my doctor over and he looked surprised too. He instructed her to check my pee to make sure I wasn't leaking protein, which is what happens when you have toxemia, the dangerously high blood pressure in pregnancy that can affect mom and baby. I was not leaking protein, so my doctor took me in for our routine dialation check and told me we'd check my pressure once more on the way out. If it was still high, I'd have to go to the hospital to be monitored for a few hours.

I was not dialated, so labor did not seem to be happening any time soon. However the next blood pressure check was even HIGHER, so my doctor told me to head up to Moses Taylor Hospital for monitoring.

Now, at this point, I was not expecting it to be "go time." This is probably why I was so calm when I called Dustin to tell him what was going on. This is also probably why we didn't alert our families until much, much later.

I picked up Dustin from work and we stopped and got some stuff to drink as it was first thing in the morning and we were parched. We sort of took our time heading to the hospital, joking on the way about "how funny it would be if today was the day" considering we had JUST put the hospital bags/car seat in the car and gotten me on his kick ass insurance THAT MORNING.

We found ourselves back in Labor and Delivery, in the same bed I had found myself laying in when the broken pelvis was discovered. I got hooked up to all of those fun machines again, relieved to learn that while my blood pressure was still EXCESSIVELY high...now as high as 209/118...the baby was fine.

Hours passed. They continued to take my blood pressure and took some pee and blood. More time passed as we waited for the results. We passed the time by listening to the other women around us in triage, none of whom were close to delivering. We managed to convince the doctors and nurses to let us get some lunch. We decided that since my blood pressure was already in the shitter, we'd get Wendy's.

After lunch, an ultrasound tech appeared at my bedside with her portable sonogram. This should have been my tip off that something was up. The tech checked out the baby and informed us that she was "big enough to be delivered." Well, that's good, I thought to myself...STILL not thinking that today was "the day."

A few minutes later, we got the results of our bloodwork. It seemed that there was an indication that my blood pressure was indeed approaching toxemia levels...and dangerous ones at that. In an instant, everything changed with one sentence uttered by the on call doctor:

"At this point, it will be in yours and the baby's best interest if we induce you."

All of the blood that had been surging too powerfully within my body suddenly rushed to my head. I got dizzy with the realization that, indeed, today WAS the day.

...or so I thought.


When medical professionals finally get around to making a decision, they move fast. I would see this several times over the course of my birth experience. This was the first. Before Dustin and I could fully process what was happening, I was being stabbed with IV needles and verbally prepared for what was going to happen next. Our daughter would be joining us on a particularly busy day in Moses Taylor, so we would wait a bit for a birthing suite and then be started on some labor inducing medications right away.

Dustin and I had a little bit of quiet time before we were moved to our suite. During this time there was some crying (me) some phone calls made to family and some excited, nervous hugs and kisses. I won't ever forget the excitement I saw on Dustin's face when he realized the baby was now on her way. I also won't ever forget how that moment marked the beginning of nearly forty hours of sheer terror for me.

I was still feeling pretty good when we got to our birthing suite, even if I was totally annoyed and grossed out by the IV needle in my wrist. I hate those things. So uncomfortable and disgusting. I was also getting annoyed by the belly monitors and the fact that my ass was hanging out of my too-small hospital gown.

Had I known what was to come, I would have RELISHED in these minor discomforts.

The first thing they did to get this kid the hell out of me was to inplant a little tab of medication within my cervix...appropriately called "cervixal" or something like that. This tab of medication would (allegedly) work to force me to dialate and contract. The upside was that it was a more gentle approach than the dreaded pitocin, which brings on labor hard and fast. The downside? It could take up to two doses to work...and each dose takes TWELVE HOURS to be considered effective.

Balls.

So they insert the medication...ouch...and we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I started to contract on my own when I was in the triage, before the medication was administered. In fact, in the days leading up to October 18th, the day of my prenatal, Dustin and I had been monitoring my contractions, which were coming about 20 minutes apart. Still we hadn't sounded any alarms because we knew this was normal and could continue for weeks before a kid showed up.

Six or so hours into this medication, my contractions started to pick up. I started to cramp. I started to get panicked and weepy. I was getting sick of being trapped in this stupid bed. The more time that passed, the worse I felt. And to top it off, my nurse was a BITCH.

Ahhhh, Jennifer. I will never be able to think of that name again without thinking of this nurse. She was about my age, thin, blonde and STRICT. In hindsight, she was exactly what I needed. I tend to revert back into being a little bit of a baby when I'm in pain or scared, complete with temper tantrums and excessive crying.

Jennifer arrived on the morning of October 19th, shortly after I found out that I had only dialated slightly and was further informed that we would be starting pitocin anyway due to my ever increasing blood pressure. From my research and polling of other induced friends, Pitocin is the devil. It does what nature is supposed to do...namely get your body moving into labor...but it's sort of like jumping into a freezing lake instead of easing in bit by bit. Within MINUTES of that dreaded drug entering my gross IV line, I felt like death. Nauseous. In severe pain. Sweaty. The only comfortable position I could endure was sitting straight up with my feet on the ground, breathing like a sea lion. This state would have been bad enough if we hadn't already had a sleepless night waiting for the stupid cervixal to work.

At some point about 20 hours into this ordeal, I started asking for a C-section. I had been informed (repeatedly) by all of the various medical staff, and most emphatically Jennifer, that a c-section was a last resort and not something they did unless it was an EMERGENCY. As long as the baby and I were tolerating current treatments, then current treatments it would be.

I sobbed some more and started to beg Dustin to break me out of this hellhole where I would find someone on craigslist to perform a c-section...or we would find out how to do it online and self serve.

More time passed. More pain. More crying. NO FOOD. NO WATER. Contractions were now waving up and down my entire body like some horrible roller coaster that was inside of my muscles. Even though I was now wishing for death, I was being praised for the horror of the experience...everyone kept calling it "progress."

At some point, Jennifer must have grown tired of my crying and moaning and started to talk about pain relief. She was barking up the IV drug tree, which I was against due to the effects on the baby. Then she started saying "epidural" a whole lot...and while I had thought I could do it without drugs, being numb from the chest down suddenly sounded like the best idea ever. I agreed.

As luck would have it, the next few hours were the hours that would change our lives.

About an hour after agreeing on some pain relief, I got my epidural. Traumatizing. I've heard women say it was a breeze, and while I didn't find it painful, I found it icky. I could feel the weird shit happening to my spine and I did not like it. I will also point out that Jennifer took sick pleasure in painfully holding my head down to my chest. When I told her she was hurting me, I swear she giggled a little bit. Once the epidural was in, I shoved her away a little bit. I think it was then that Jennifer realized that paralyzed from the waist down or not, she was gonna have to be a little gentler with me or I was going to eat her face zombie style.

The epidural didn't even have time to work before shit started to get real. My blood pressure lowered for a moment, an effect of the epidural, and then skyrocketed. The baby's heartrate started to dip. My heartrate started to soar. Within moments, a doctor appeared to break my water.

Again, with the epidural still pending, another horrific experience.

Side note...most of my pregnancy was spent checking to see if my water had broken. Trust me, you will know when your water breaks. It was like a typhoon.

Even with all of the drugs (my pitocin had been steadily increased to the maximum dosage) and with my water being broken, I was still in what everyone kept calling "stalled labor." Just as I was starting to enjoy some epidural related relief, my birthing suite turned into a scene from an ER as the machine that had been reassuring us that our baby was fine suddenly started squealing that everything was, in fact, not fine.

Our baby was in distress. My body was giving up. The doctor snapped into action. "We can't wait," she said. "Erin, we're going to do an emergency c-section. Right now."

Poor sleep deprived Erin and Dustin laid and stood in shocked and scared awe as an army of medical professionals suddenly arrived on the scene. People were no longer being calm and nice to me. In fact, I was pretty sure no matter what I said it was now being ignored. I was being hooked up to more machines and drugs and being told so much information at once that it was beyond scary and overwhelming. I think at one point I asked for "five minutes to collect myself" and was told "we don't have five minutes."

I started to freak out, particularly when they handed Dustin some scrubs and ushered him away from me, telling him to go and get changed. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they literally pushed him from the room. Dustin and I have a theory as to why this happened. We think shit was so bad that they didn't want him around to A.) freak out or B.) see some REALLY bad shit.

Regardless of why Dustin was taken away from me, I flipped. I started screaming anything I thought would buy me some more time, including "You can't operate on me! My epidural isn't working!" This got some attention. A nurse I hadn't seen before bent down to my face with a very serious expression.

"Listen," she said, her voice low and heavy with importance. "Say whatever you want. Scream if you have to. But do not say you feel pain. If you say you're in pain, they will knock you out completely and you won't be able to see your baby for hours."

Gulp.

I decided to pick something sort of vanilla to yell, and while I don't remember this very well, Dustin later informed me that I shrieked "THIS IS REALLY SCARY" for about an hour.

They dosed me with morphine at some point. I was told this would help with pain, but I'm pretty sure it was to make me quiet.

I was rushed to the OR in a blur of morphiney memories. I was aware, however, that Dustin was nowhere to be seen. As they strapped me down to the operating table, I started to demand his whereabouts.

They were so rushed that Dustin didn't appear until I was already cut open. He saw all my insides. How gross/cool.

As I was promised, (repeatedly) the c-section didn't exactly hurt, but it was a horribly uncomfortable experience. You don't feel pain, but you feel other sensations...like the blood pouring out of your in a spreading of warmth as they cut you. You feel their hands inside of you. You feel them reaching around, pulling out your insides. You feel suffocated as theses pushing hands knock up against your lungs. You feel dizzy and nauseous and powerless. And then you feel an incredible RELEASE of pressure as your child is ripped from your insides and held up for your husband to snap a bloody, purple-toned picture.

Kismet was quiet at first, but within moments we heard that tiny shriek of life pierce through the room. We heard everyone exclaim how beautiful she was. Now instead of screaming "THIS IS REALLY SCARY," I was screaming "IS SHE OK" to Dustin. Dustin was able to go over and see her immediately, something I am still very envious of. He touched her and took pictures of her and cut her cord...and then came over to me with the pictures at first and then finally her.

I cried at the sight of her and at not being able to touch her as they put me back together again like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.

Thanks to morphine and God knows whatever else they shot me full of, I actually felt pretty good in the hours right after the procedure. I was able to hold Kizzy right away; we even breastfed immediately. I remember being very chatty with the evil Jennifer, who I was now calling my best friend (she had stayed with me during the operation even though she didn't have to. I guess she was okay after all.) I giggled as a very nice nurse gave Kiz her first bath and Dustin and I marveled at all of her adorable features and fuzzy head. We kissed her face and each other and her again. Then, just an hour later, we were moved to our baby room, which was actually quite cozy and where we'd spend the next five freaking days.

One of my best memories from October 19th was when I was being wheeled to our baby room. I was able to hold Kizzy for the ride. I felt like I was in a baby parade. We passed tons of hospital staff along the way, each of them giving congrats and telling me how beautiful my daughter was. If I didn't have a death grip on my little girl, I would have been waving like a pagent princess.

Our first night as a family was pretty easy. We decided that we didn't want the baby to be taken from us at all, so she stayed in either our arms or her little bassinet, sleeping peacefully and breastfeeding from time to time. I was still under the effects of morphine AND paralyzed so I couldn't move, and Dustin made a sort of crappy bed out of the hospital chairs. I think we all got a few hours of sleep.

I woke up on day two to another evil nurse who told me I should try to get up and walk around. At first I thought...okay...fair enough, I probably should. First order of business was removing my cath...OUCH. In order to do this, I had to lay down flat.

It was at that moment I realized why a c-section was a last resort.

Holy. Mutha. Effin. PAIN.

I am proud to say that I DID get up and stroll around that morning. And I forced myself to walk around a lot in those days immediately following the surgery as I heard it was instrumental in a fast heal. But I have never felt pain like that before in my life. And I was on a pretty high dose of Percocet. This pain prevented me from doing normal things...like putting on undies...for about 2 weeks afterwards. I am JUST starting to feel quasi normal again...and I still have pretty intense abdominal pain. I have heard some other people have found the c-section not as bad as I did, but my advice is to go vaginally or go home.

Kizzy wasn't really fairing much better than mom. As many premature babies are, Kiz was jaundiced and had to spend some time getting a tan. She actually really liked the "billy bed" because it was warm. She slept through most of her treatment.

They also discovered a small heart murmur which required an ultrasound and a cardiologist visit. This murmur still exists, but it's so slight the doctors are not worried about it.

We spent the next few days getting used to waking up every few minutes to tend to our daughter. We had our first parental breakdown moment when I made the decision to supplement with formula a little bit as my daughter cried from hunger because mom wasn't producing enough for her. Dustin was against this move, but I think he got on board after she stopped fussing and allowed us to sleep.

We were given the all clear to go home on the fifth day of our ordeal. I have to say that after being at home with my girl for just a few days, the hospital I was so anxious to leave became something I missed.

Having a newborn in the house is intensely stressful. Kizzy is an easy baby...not much of a crier, but sort of a fusser. I missed having an army of medical professionals at my disposal to ask a thousand questions. Also...sleep. There is no. sleep.

Kizzy has a shitbox schedule and it keeps getting worse. The first few days we were home, she slept all day and all night, only waking to feed and pass back out. We thanked our lucky stars for such an easy baby.

And she IS an easy baby, compared to what she COULD be doing...but she does not believe in sleeping at night.

Each night, from about 7 to midnight, Kizzy has fussy time. We've heard this described as a worldwide phenom amongst newborns called "The witching hour." It's basically just a few hours of a very pissed off kid. Kizzy also does this LOUD grunting when she's trying to poop or pass gas. It warranted a call to the doctor, who isn't alarmed by it. She's just vocal and getting used to a maturing digestive tract. Wonderful. Especially since it happens ALL NIGHT LONG.

I've reached a breaking point several times so far. This breaking point is easy to identify because it involves me at 3am, feeding Kizzy and sobbing out of sheer exhaustion. I'll say things like "I can't do this" and "I'm a terrible mother."

The other night the sleep deprivation took on a whole new form as I got myself so tired that I thought there was a racoon in the house and started meandering from room to room trying to catch it.

Dustin and I are adjusting, as all new parents eventually (thankfully) do. We know in the back of our minds that this newborn situation is temporary and eventually we'll all fall into a routine. Our routine right now, at least during the week when Dustin has to work, involves me going to bed around dinnertime, leaving my saintly husband to deal with baby fussy time. Then I get up at like 11:30 and he goes to sleep. Then I spend the rest of my night and the following day feeding, rocking, pumping breast milk and catnapping with my darling daughter.

Here come some cliches.

It is not easy. NOTHING can prepare you for your own experience with your brand new baby. You will never love and hate something so much at the same time. You will want to strangle your spouse when they are asleep because you are not. You will be hungrier than you've ever been, more sleepy than you thought a human could be, sadder than you've ever been and more elated than you have EVER been.

There are moments that make everything...EVERY PART OF THIS LONG SCARY JOURNEY completely worth it. One moment happened to me yesterday afternoon. Kizzy was being a fussy pants after napping for about six minutes. I walked over to her cradle and picked her up, cooing something along the lines of "it's ok, mommy is here."

Kiz smiled.

It was probably gas, but it was wide eyed, open mouthed, and in response to ME.

I could have crushed her I wanted to hug her so hard.

I hope to blog more about the little "joys" of parenthood...like how at our first doctor's appointment Kizzy pooped all over the nurse after having her temperature taken rectally...or how I have suddenly discovered that when you're home alone with a newborn you can't really leave her to shower so at the end of the day you are GROSS...or how Kizzy looks so much like Dustin it makes me fall in love with him all over again every moment of every day...but I have a feeling I'll be so busy that these blogs will come in drips and drabs. Rest assured, though, that I'm making memories I won't forget just because they aren't written here.

So it's the end and the beginning of our journey. I picked out our daughter's middle name, Ivy because I wanted something beautiful and simple and that reminded me of how things grow and bloom. Dustin, however, named her Kismet, which is a name he picked out long before we were on this parenting path. It had been a joke from our early dating days, when we would sit in my car chain smoking, sipping coffee and talking about the future. It happened at the moment we knew our dating was more than dating. When we decided that meeting each other was kismet...or very lucky, perfect fate. A destiny. Later on in our relationship, we were sitting on the docks in Port Jefferson, watching the sunset. A boat lazily sailed by us, the name emblazened on the back was KISMET. In this perfect moment of warm sun, hand holding and feet dangling over the edge of the faded wood of a dock we had both strolled at many other times in our lives, Dustin remarked that if we ever had a daughter we would have to name her Kismet.

And we did.

POP GOES THE PELVIS

Get pregnant and the horror stories begin. Some of your closer family members and friends will be all too willing to share with you tales of blood, guts and gore, while others will simply smile, wait for you to give birth and then gab with you about how terrible it was. Still others, like me, are more than willing to give you a candid look inside the world of creating a human. You're welcome.

As I've mentioned a few times, I have been lucky enough to enjoy a relatively pain/symptom free pregnancy. Sure, I struggled with some raging hormones...excessive peeing...and a week or two of being revolted by certain foods...but I dodged the morning sickness, high blood pressure, diabetes and other horrible things some of my mommy friends/family member have not been so lucky to miss. At nearly 35 weeks, I've only gained 16 pounds and have been rather healthy in general. As my due date approaches, I've started to be minorly bothered by some less than comfortable side effects...not being able to bend over...increased constipation...anxiety...but nothing...NOTHING prepared me for what happened on Monday night.

I will preface this by saying it only happens to about 1 percent of pregnant women, so if you're newly expecting or planning to procreate, you will probably avoid this horror.

Monday night was a typical evening of excessive peeing. At about 1am, I woke up for my 17th pee. Getting out of bed in the third trimester is an artform. I usually roll to my hands and knees and back out like a human dump truck. This time, however, when I rolled over, I heard a very loud POP. From my vagina.

I had read that sometimes, when your water breaks, you can hear an audible pop followed by a gush of water. I froze, waiting for the gush in horrified silence...I was 34 weeks to the day and the idea that Baby K could be on her way was terrifying. I thought maybe if I didn't move, she wouldn't either. Instead of a gush of water, however, there came a flood of the most intense, horrific pain I have ever felt.

It radiated from my lady parts to my hips to my legs. If I moved, it was searing. Depsite this, I thought that maybe this sensation was a precursor to the most impressive poop I would ever take. (Not to be gross, but I've had some pretty terrible digestive issues this whole pregnancy.) I limped and sobbed my way silently to the bathroom, trying not to wake up poor Dustin who had to work in a few hours.

Upon closer inspection of myself, there was no blood, no liquid and no poop. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to fight the urge to pass out or vomit from pain. I wondered if this was labor, but it was so localized...and so not what I had heard labor felt like, that I sort of instinctively knew it wasn't. I took some tylenol (that's how you know it was bad...I've avoided pain killers at all costs) and hobbled my way back into bed.

At the same time this was happening, I was struggling through a mild allergic reaction. I have varying degrees of such reactions and was dealing with what I call the "roaming hives." This is when I get an outbreak of hives but catch it early enough to treat it with benadryl, which results in about five big hives moving around my body. One day they'll be on my arms, then my belly, then my legs, etc. I prefer the roaming hives to the "anchored hives," (another phrase I've coined.) My anchor hives stay in one place for at least two weeks and get as big as dinner plates.

I mention this because I've experienced hives inside of my throat, ears and...ahem...bathing suit area. INSIDE my lady parts. Yeah, sit with THAT pretty image for a sec. Sometimes, these "insidesies hives" (don't think about stealing all my medical terminology, k?) will cause pain. So I lay in bed, crying, cursing my mother for not breast feeding me and therefore forcing me to live with painful allergic reactions.

After a few hours of flopping between sort of sleeping and crying, I woke up the next day after Dustin had left for work to discover I was still in pretty horrible pain. Not wanting to worry Dustin, I downplayed the situation, telling him when he came home for lunch that I had heard a "pop" and was experiencing some pain. Level headed, practical man that he is, he urged I call the doctor.

I'm not SCARED of the doctor, but I don't like going. I know, selfish. But it takes a lot for me to decide to seek care. By the time Tuesday night rolled around, I was practically immobile and couldn't stop crying. Instead of going to the hospital, as Dustin was now pretty much demanding, I told him I'd take more tylenol and wait one more night to see if I got better.

Wednesday morning (yesterday) I reached my breaking point. I couldn't move AT ALL without pretty much screaming. I hadn't slept in two nights. Something was seriously wrong. So, I called my doctor's office and spoke to the on call nurse, explaining my symptoms. She was quiet and told me she needed to talk to the doctor about all of this. I got a call back instructing me to head to Labor and Delivery at my hospital ASAP.

I sat for ten minutes with these directions before calling Dustin and telling him. I cried and begged him not to make me go, that I wasn't ready to give birth...that I felt better (lie.) He smartly and gently ignored me, somehow got my fat ass into the car and took us to the hospital.

I was shaking when we checked in. They were waiting for me, and as it turned out my delivering doctor was actually there. They quickly got me all hooked up with the belly monitors, took my pee and blood pressure and another gallon or so of blood. The wonderful, comforting news was that the baby was fine. Both her heartrate and mine were a bit on the high side, but I was scared out of my mind and in incredible pain, so that was to be expected. In fact, once they told me she was ok and Dustin did some nicies (gentle stroking) on my arm, I calmed down and so did she.

The hospital staff was wonderful. My nurse, Patty, was amazing and calm and reassuring. We weren't left alone with our worries for more than a few minutes before she popped in to reassure us and make sure we were ok.

They ruled out early labor, thank Goodness. Suddenly, I found that I could be honest with my level of pain, now that I knew the kid wasn't en route. Yeah, I was pretty much dying, and I finally admitted it.

After my bloodwork came back, (stellar) my doctor appeared in between delivering babies. Before he emerged behind my curtain, we heard him say "this sounds like SPD," to Patty. Patty made a tsking noise and said, "well, YOU will have to break that news to her."

Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction is a fancy way to say that your pelvis is misaligned. My situation had progressed one step further...to Diastasis symphysis pubis...which is the separation of normally joined pubic bones...as in the dislocation of the bones.

The kid had literally popped the cartilage keeping my pelvis together, causing a gap in the bones and the pain of childbirth...but constant.

Diagnosing my condition consisted of my doctor pressing down on my pelvis to see if the joint was indeed loose. I pretty much blacked out at this point, but Dustin later told me that he explained the condition after his torture and that while there are complications that may arise come birthin' time, there were a few steps we could take to try and get some comfort. The bad news? This condition does not go away until after birth, it just gets managed.

Firstly, I was prescribed steroids. Usually steroids and pregnancy are a no-no, as I discovered when I had a previous allergic reaction in the first trimester. However late in the third trimester, they are less likely to do damage and sometimes the benefits outweigh the risks. The steroids may heal me up a little and reduce some of my painful swelling, but more importantly it will speed up the baby's lung development as early labor is a possibility with this condition.

A nice bonus of the steroids is the fact that my hives will go away too. (After just two doses, they did.)

I'm not thrilled about taking them, but I'm less thrilled about the other method of managing this condition...painkillers.

Oxycodone with Acetominaphen. Basically Percocet. (I know I spelled that wrong. Whatever, my vagina hurts.) I've been prescribed this a few times, mostly for tooth related issues...and I'm not gonna lie, it's a good time. I have a low tolerance to it, so usually just half a dose will knock out any discomforts. But a narcotic? When pregnant??

Patty handed my the prescription and I immediately recognized the drug. I stopped her in the middle of her discharge instructions and said..."Oxycodone? Is this safe??"

She smiled and said, "Would we give it to you if it wasn't?"

I didn't answer, but remained doubtful.

A painful hour or so later we had dropped off the prescriptions and were eating some lunch at Chicago Uno Grill, which we just discovered and really enjoy. I mentioned to Dustin about 40 times that I didn't think the oxy was a good idea. But considering the fact that my pelvis pain was threatening to steal my consciousness at any moment...and the fact that just walking ten feet took about 20 minutes, Dustin was pretty insistent that I needed something for the pain.

We picked up the scripts and got Dustin a flu shot while we were at the Target Pharmacy. (I was shocked he agreed to do that. He is staunchy anti-medical intervention for himself. To the point of not taking advil even when he's in severe pain. But when I got mine (I didn't have a choice) I was told he should get one too...for the safety of the baby this flu season. And he did. What a great dad.)

When we got home, I hesitated for a moment about the steroids, but took them knowing it would increase my chances at a natural delivery and help the baby's lungs...but I didn't even open the Percocet. Dustin allowed me to moan on the couch in pain for all of 2 minutes before he decided enough was enough and forced me to take one pill, half the suggested dose.

Fifteen minutes later, a fraction of the pain had ebbed, but it was as if I had entered a cotton candy world of happiness. I was still in pain, but I could shuffle to the bathroom on my own without crying and lay down and get up without screaming.

Percocet also makes me very funny, chatty, nauseous and lightheaded. I spent the next five or six hours yapping Dustin's ear off, forcing my body to hold down my chicago uno meal, and texting hysterical things to my dad and stepmom.

The dosing instructions are two pills every four hours. I have taken three pills in 24 hours. I took my second one right before bed...finally slept, interrupted by the normal pee parade instead of pain...and I took my third with lunch today after I discovered I couldn't walk again.

I'll be seeing my doctor every Tuesday morning from now through birth. There's a chance, if I don't heal enough, that I'll have to have a C-section, which is something I'd really like to avoid. There's also a chance that the baby could be early...but interestingly enough the doctors are starting to think they have misdiagnosed my due date...and that I may in fact be two weeks further along. Going by the original due date of halloween, I am 34 weeks and 4 days today. Going by the baby's measurments and the fact that my pelvis is separating already, I'm closer to 36 weeks. 37 weeks is considered full term, and since we're moving into our new house in 8 days, I'd like her to stay put for at least 20 more days. That's a lot of baby math.

So, that's my worst horror story so far. I imagine it pales in comparrison so the big day itself. I suppose we'll find out soon enough.

TOP TEN SIGNS YOUR RELATIONSHIP DOES NOT SUCK

Today, Dustin and I are celebrating our anniversary. We actually had to figure out a date based on the moment we knew we were committed to each other, which was weird. Remember in high school you totally knew your "date" because it was the day he or she circled "yes" on the note you passed that said "will you go out with me?" Things are more complicated now.

Dustin and I had been...let's say "dating"...for a while before September 7th, but it was that date that he and I went on our first vacation together...to Mystic Seaport, of all places. We had a wonderful time, and I think we both knew where we stood on the ferry ride home to Orient Point...and that was September 7th.

By the time you reach your thirties, most of us have had relationships of all different varieties. Brief romances, intense crushes, long term fizzlers, unrequited longings and flat out mistakes. I've had at least one of each. I think each relationship you have...even ones that don't involve sex or romance...prepare you and educate you for what you DO want in an ideal situation. You learn what works and what doesn't. And while you still may find yourself in a repeat crap situation, eventually you'll start to recognize a pattern and make better choices in a partner.

Dustin is good for me for many reasons, as I'd like to think I'm good for him. Ironically, and perhaps (to some) forebodingly, both he and I were coming off of very long term, very troubled relationships. I think for quite some time early in our relationship, that was something in the back of our minds...and probably the minds of those around us. I hate the term "rebound," but it was difficult not to think about that word in our situation. It prevented us from moving too quickly...or from admitting we were dating for quite some time. In fact, we worked together and hid it from our coworkers for about six months. Not easy to do in an office of like, eight.

Taking it relatively slow was a good choice for us. Like most women, I credit myself with knowing that this was "meant to be" early on...although Dustin claims he did too. But it's only with the passage of time that I can really see how truly lucky we are to have found each other. And before this starts to sound way too hallmarky, here are MY top ten reasons your relationship does not suck.

10. YOU RECOGNIZE AND ACKNOWLEDGE AND ACCEPT FAULTS EARLY ON, RATHER THAN TRYING TO IGNORE OR FIX THEM. No human is perfect. We all have really annoying traits. When I talk to some of my friends who are still in the dating game, I always see it as a warning sign when they've only been around the person a few times but already have things that annoy them about the other party.

"I like her, but she refers to her cat as her 'son.'"

"We have a good time, but he scratches his balls in public."

"She makes me laugh, but she is rude to waiters."

"I love spending time with him, but he lives in his ex's basement."

Deal breakers come in all forms. I once had to dump a guy because I couldn't get past the way he insisted on drinking wine. (Swirl the glass, deep sniff of the liquid, tiny sips and swooshes around the mouth, approval, big swig.) Nobody is saying that you HAVE to accept faults. If it drives you nuts...by all means...bail. BUT...your relationship does not suck if you can be around the little annoying things your partner does and not want to stab yourself in the eye with a chopstick.

(Dustin whistles CONSTANTLY and I suck on my teeth when I'm thinking.)


9. THAT WAS FUCKING GROSS, BUT I STILL LOVE YOU. The human body does disgusting things. I'm not a shy person, but like most people, I prefer to conduct my grosser bodily functions in private and not introduce them into routine conversations. I don't know if it's from being pregnant or if it's just because there's nothing either Dustin or I could do that would be so gross that it would be a deal breaker. I can freely talk about all the not so hot things my body is doing and Dustin will often not only accept it, but ask detailed questions about it. From the very first transvaginal ultrasound, all disgusting body things were completely accepted. Out of respect for Dustin I won't talk about any of his disgusting bodily functions, but suffice it to say there have been a few and I still love him more and more every day.

8. WOW...YOU'RE A LITTLE CRAZY...BUT I'M NOT GONNA JUDGE YOU. Yeah, I'm nuts. I'm the first person who will acknowledge that. I have an anxiety disorder that will bring me from normal, fun lovin' chick to irrational, evil beast in less than two minutes. Throw some pregnancy hormones into that mix and you're pretty much dealing with a need-to-call-an-exorcist situation. I've always done my best to hide my crazy in past situations, but again, pregnancy makes that all but impossible. (Side note...you don't have to be pregnant to know your relationship doesn't suck, it's just been the time in my life where my guard has been down the lowest and I've been at my worst, so it's a good way to tell just how solid Dustin and I are.) When I was about two months pregnant, we were moving from one crappy living situation to another. Tensions were already quite high because of all the drama we were experiencing. We had rented a uhaul and as you probably know, when you return said uhaul, you have to make sure it's full of gas and provide the receipt. For whatever reason, I forgot to get a receipt after fill up and pulled away. Dustin was following me in his car. About twenty seconds after I had pulled out of the gas station, I realized my mistake and called Dustin FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. It was an easy fix, he ended up going back and getting the receipt, no prob...but my reaction was SO off base...the fact that he didn't run for the hills is a pretty good indicator that my craziness is not a deal breaker. When you find a man who can deal with it, you don't let him go.

7. YOU SMELL, YOUR HAIR IS MAKING NATURAL DREDLOCKS, YOU HAVE A HUGE ZIT AND YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE YOU JUST ATE A POOP SANDWICH. C'MERE AND GIMMIE A KISS. Dustin and I are morning cuddlers. You know your relationship doesn't suck when you're at your grossest and can still kiss and cuddle. (While we're at it, what HAPPENS in the middle of the night that makes you so gross? I swear to God, sometimes I wake up and it seriously looks/smells like I've been camping for a month. In Africa. In the middle of a heatwave.)

6. YOU LIKE THAT SONG/TV SHOW/MOVIE? YOU'RE AN EFFING DORK. YEAH WE CAN LISTEN TO THE ALBUM/WATCH THE SEASON PREMIERE/RENT IT ON NETFLIX. Dustin has listened to all of the My Chemical Romance albums, watched several episodes of Glee and sat through all of the Twilight movies. I know a little bit of him died with each event. Nuff said.

5. THIS IS MY FAMILY. I WANT THEM TO KNOW YOU. I think a good indicator that your relationship does not suck is when your significant other not only wants to introduce you to their family, but also wants you to be a PART of their family. One of the greatest perks of my relationship with Dustin is the relationship I've developed with his family. They're the first family I love because of who they are...not because I have to or because they're my own family and I'm obligated to. When I started to see myself years down the line celebrating holidays, birthdays and other big events with this wonderful group of people, I knew I was at home in my relationship. And that it did not suck.

4. KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF. YOU'RE BEING RIDICULOUS. Nobody...and I mean NOBODY...has ever called me on my BS before. Dustin is the first person who will tell me if I'm being ridiculous by way of an overreaction, a worry, an anger I'm harboring, a jerky comment I make or a bad choice in general. The first few times it happened, it was disconcerting. Then I realized it was actually refreshing. It felt RIGHT to be so honest with someone. It was like the best of both worlds...being able to have an opinion, but not being agreed with automatically. It's just more real. And gratifying. AND...it's amazing to be able to do the same thing with him.

3. SEE THAT THING YOU'VE SEEN A THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE? I'M ABOUT TO SHOW IT TO YOU IN A WHOLE NEW LIGHT AND BLOW YOUR FREAKING MIND. One of the things I love about Dustin is his ability to see beauty in things that surround us every day. When we were first dating, he'd point at something like...a tree stump and say, "look at the way the bark is hugging that stump. Isn't that beautiful?" Or "Look at these grains of sand. Look at how the sun hits them and changes color. Isn't that beautiful?" Or "Look at those weeds under that frozen lake...they're going to grow into amazing plants in the spring. Isn't that incredible?" He saw things in a completely different way. I have noticed, as time passes, that I will point out things to him now that I never would have noticed before. He's actually CHANGED THE WAY I FREAKING SEE THINGS. In a way, he made my world bigger. That is pretty amazing.

2. I DISAGREE, BUT THIS WILL NOT TURN INTO AN EPISODE OF COPS. If everyone agreed all the time, the world would be a more peaceful, but incredibly one dimensional place to live. I have been in relationships before where the other party avoided confrontation at all costs. While I don't seek out discord, it became a sad, hollow, one sided relationship. Like the mental version of masterbation. It felt good but wasn't as fufilling and required too much self stimuation. Dustin and I will frequently have differences of opinion, but instead of becoming a springboard for an argument, it's a catalyst for a discussion. Usually we both walk away a bit more enlightened. Sometimes one of us will change our opinion, but it doesn't feel like a compromise. We can usually move on without either of us stabbing the other and that's definitely an indicator that things are going well in a relationship.

1. IT'S ME AND YOU, NOT ME OR YOU. The biggest reason I know this is for keeps is the way Dustin and I give and take for the benefit of the unspoken "greater good," which is us the entity, not us, Dustin and Erin. It may sound like an identity removal, but what I mean is how willing both he and I are to make things right for the both of us. And now that our daughter is almost here, for the three of us. It's completely involuntary too. We see what the other requires, and we each do what we have to do to make that happen. It doesn't matter if it's a material need or a hug or a grilled cheese sandwich. If one of us needs something, the other will make it happen. And it's not only for the other person, it's for ourselves. A sacrifice doesn't feel like a sacrifice when it's born of willingness. A compromise doesn't feel like a compromise when it's for a common goal. And love should be multiplied between two people, not divided into compartments like a cafeteria lunch tray.

It's because of these 10 reasons, and so many more each day that I realize my relationship does not suck. I consider myself one of the lucky ones, even if I do have to listen to Dustin whistle all the fucking time...sometimes even when he's asleep.