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.

Sometimes Stuff Happens In Scranton

At a time in my life where I have to invent things to worry about, it's refreshing when a day comes along that brings some excitment, especially when nobody gets hurt.

I woke up today to discover that we had no water in our apartment. We've only been here for about three months, but this is something of a common occurance. City water is unpredictable. The reason for today's drought was a burst pipe in the road right outside of our apartment. For the first few hours of my morning, the cats and I gazed out the window, watching thousands of gallons of water pour into the now closed down street. A construction crew arrived on the scene and dug a huge hole in the road...I'm guessing in an attempt to repair the busted pipe. As I type right now, they are still trying to fix the situation and water continues to pour into the street.

I mention the water pipe bursting because it will explain my reaction to the bigger news of the day...the 5.9 magnitude earthquake that hit the podunk town of Mineral, VA.

At exactly 1:13pm, I was laying on the couch watching TV...not exactly out of the norm for a typical day in my life. Suddenly, I felt what I thought was the baby having an intense kicking fit. Then, realizing it wasn't the baby, I flipped over to yell at my cat for shaking the couch with her scratching...but she wasn't there. Then my eyes fell on my glass of water on the coffee table, which was shaking in impressive rings, Jurassic Park style. I sat up as the floor began to rock and everything in the apartment began to shake.

My immediate thought was that they had overmined the road. When Dustin and I go on car trips, we like to wikipedia a specific topic and he reads them to me. Nerds. Anyway, not too long ago, he read me the history of Scranton. One of the things we learned was that the city had been overmined terribly, to the point where buildings frequently collapse because there is just nothing underground to support them. Living on the second floor of our apartment building, this was my immediate fear. At one point I actually had to brace myself against the sway of the floor. I don't know why my reaction wasn't to get out of the building, but instead I called Dustin.

When he answered, I heard panicked voices in the background.

"Our building is shaking and things are falling off the walls!" I blurted out, my extensive vocabulary temporarily pregnancy sapped.

"Yes, our building is shaking too, I'm in the stairwell trying to get out," he replied. For the first time in our relationship, I heard genuine fear in his voice. It suddenly dawned on my pea brain that Dustin works on the top floor of his building. There is a million ton antenna on the roof. There are no windows on his floor. And he had never been in an earthquake before.

I will pause for a moment in my story to say that I have been in another (also extremely minor) earthquake. It was my freshman year at SUNY Fredonia. I was in our health center, sick with a fever and a terrible sore throat that had gone for about two weeks unchecked because I had convinced myself that whiskey was medicine. I was pretty much delerious when the earthquake hit, but I remember watching a can of soda dance off of the edge of the health center's receptionist's desk and wondering why my dizziness had suddenly increased 20 fold. The sensation was just like today, except not as strong.

Back to my phone convo with Dustin. Upon realization that if this was a precursor to a big, Scranton-centered earthquake, Dustin would be in serious trouble in his old, antenna topped building, our conversation veered.

"Ok, get out," I said. "I'll get out too."

"Ok," Dustin replied and I hung up to encourage him to book it to safety.

Since the first tremor, I'd estimate only about 30 seconds had passed. The building was still shaking.

I was standing like a dolt, looking at my idiot cats. I cursed out loud. I was gonna have to carry these furballs to safety.

At this point, a heavy, decorative plate fell off of my wall, scaring the crap out of me. It jarred me into action. I decided that the life of me and my unborn child, if this was about to be a serious disaster, were more important than the cats. I felt sick to my stomach as I quickly threw on a bra, grabbed my wallet and phone and prayed that the cats would be smart enough to stand in a doorway if the building were about to collapse.

Now I need to rewind for a minute to point out something I found incredibly interesting about this whole thing. About five minutes before the earthquake, both of my cats awoke from their normal middle of the day slumber and were suddenly up my ass, acting very weird. My big fat cat literally jumped on top of me while the little one did a pee-pee dance by my feet, meowing loudly. Weird, right?

Alright so back to the quake. I waddled out of the apartment and down the stairs. By the time I rounded the corner to the exit, Dustin was at the other end of the corridor, sweaty and a little out of sorts from the experience. We decided to go outside, just in case there was about to be a bigger disaster or the building was about to collapse.

We live in Downtown Scranton, among mostly businesses. The streets were lined with people, chattering about what had just happened. We called some relatives on LI...some felt it and some didn't. We later learned that the reason it was a little more intense in Scranton was because Mineral, VA is pretty much directly south of us and Scranton is connected to the epicenter by bedrock. Most of the buildings here are anchored in said bedrock, so when it shook, it REALLY shook.

We meandered around for a bit, learning details from people on the street and Dustin's blackberry before deciding it was safe to return inside.

We didn't experience physical aftershocks, but the rest of the day was earthquake tainted. I started to think about our upcoming move and not being able to have Dustin close enough to literally run home. We discussed how scary it is when something like this happens, something you have no control over. I beat myself up for not getting out of the building immediately to protect the life of my baby.

Funny how a little rumble can do more than shake you up.



In other news, a Sonic opened in Scranton. We actually went on the grand opening night. I'm still shocked we got a stall. Sonic is THE most convienient way to get fat. Even though I just ate taco bell about an hour ago, I have informed Dustin that we will be visiting Sonic later on tonight.

HOME SWEET HOUSE

(If you can name the musical that the title of this blog is from, you are a HUGE dork just like me.)

You'd think with all this time on my hands I'd be better at updating this blog. You would be wrong. I like to fill my days with worrying about things I cannot change, checking to make sure I'm not bleeding or leaking amniotic fluid, running to the bathroom when my daughter squeezes my bladder as if it's a pillow person and grazing through the cupboards like some sort of sophisticated, house broken cow. In the third trimester, some things become more important than blogging.

That being said, I made a promise to myself that I would continue to document this experience and so I shall, even if it's only when big milestones are passed.

As already mentioned, we have finally reached the promise land...the highly anticipated summer blockbuster event better known as the third trimester. My new favorite game is flipping back through my well-worn copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and chuckling to myself over the dog-eared pages on months two, three and four. It feels like a lifetime ago that I was worried about things like etopic pregnancy, spontaneous abortion and neural defects. I remember longing for the stage I find myself in now, where the chances of my little one's survival (should she make an early entrance) are pretty good with the help of medical intervention. I remember thinking that I would never make it to the "safe" zone that I'm in now...praying that time would fly and this little miracle would be big and strong and healthy.

Not only has she met THOSE particular requirements, she's become something of a vampiric leech. At week 28, mammas to be undergo a final battery of blood tests. They check your glucose to see if you've developed gestational diabetes, do a complete blood count to see where all of your important levels are hovering and check for certain diseases in case you've been a whore and contracted an STD since your initial prenatal testing. No really, they check for that. I also was treated to the RH shot, which only 15 percent of mammas get to experience...the fifteen percent of us who are a negative blood type but chose a baby daddy with a positive blood type. Dustin and I are both type O, but he's positive and I'm negative. There's a chance my blood could attack the baby and vice versa. Side effects range from things like deafness and blindness for the baby to more serious complications for both of us. Interestingly, Dustin's Grandmother and Grandfather on his father's side were a positive and negative couple and procreated before the RH shot was invented and ended up having two children with hearing problems. One of Dustin's aunts is completely deaf while an uncle suffers severe loss. Just another reason I'm thankful we're doing this in the age of modern medicine.

I elected to get the bloodwork done at the hospital at which we will be delivering. I was curious to check it out and planned on sneaking up to the Labor and Delivery floor to see what I was in for. Because I have a history of severe, sometimes life threatening allergies, I was informed that I'd have to stay in the hospital for a few hours after getting the shot just in case I had a reaction. So I got all the blood work done (still effing hate it) and then got the shot, which I didn't even feel despite it being a rather large needle and a lot of fluid. I asked permission to walk around the hospital while they waited to see if I was gonna croak, and they agreed as long as I wore a bracelet and a HUGE necklace that both said ALLERGY in huge red lettering in case I passed out somewhere. This way they'd know what to do a little faster. So I strolled around, no doubt looking a mess with a huge belly, my arms all bandaged up and my new allergy accessories.

The hospital was AWESOME. Scranton is kind of a dirt chicken town so I was a little worried, but Moses Taylor Hospital has one of the best reputations in the Northeast. Contrary to what I've seen at hospitals like Brookhaven or Stony Brook on LI, this hospital was calm, empty and friendly. Everyone I came into contact with was a peach. All of the processes I found myself going through had zero waiting time, aside from the casual conversation and general unhurried nature of Pennsylvanians, which is a nice change of pace.

I went up to Labor and Delivery hoping to spy on some newborns, but none were in the nursery. If I had waited a bit, the nursery would have been full as there were several laboring moms in the birthing suites. The Labor and Delivery floor was beautiful, complete with a Dunkin Donuts coffee station and classical music being pumped through the hallways. That's pretty much the perfect way to start life, in my opinion.

My blood results were back within a day. I had been stressing over the glucose test. I had actually done a one hour test at 16 weeks on LI because I am a tad overweight and they wanted to check it out early, and I had tested high. That could have had something to do with me forgetting I had the test in the morning and eating an entire bag of peanut butter cups the night before. LI had wanted me to do the three hour test right away, but I decided to wait and when I got into my practice up here, they agreed with me and waited until week 28. Imagine my surprise when my glucose levels came back LOW this time. Whew! I was blindsided by the fact that I had tested severely anemic, however. I was placed on iron supplements, which are making me feel like completely crap.

I had been suffering with some random symptoms over the past three weeks which have been explained away by the anemia. Blue, dry lips. Blue fingernails. Hair loss. Extreme fatigue. Extreme crankiness. While the iron pills have cleared all of that up, they are WRECKING my gastrointestinal tract. Everyone warned me that I would become constipated from these pills, and sorry for the TMI, but I am having the opposite problem, in addition to some epic gas/gas pains. I actually have decided to take a day off from the iron pills just to give my poor tush the day off.

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday, where everything looks good except for low blood pressure. It was 106 over 60 yesterday, which isn't great. It's due to the anermia, most likely. I'll be having my blood checked again in a few days to see if the iron is helping. If not, I'll have to get some injections. The good news and silver lining in all of this is that the baby does not suffer in this scenario. She is getting everything she needs. I'm the one hurtin.

The baby is INCREDIBLY active. The doctor consistently has to chase her down to get a heartbeat. This has been the case since week 12. Dustin and I are in for it.

So that's the baby update. All systems go. Still lookin at a Halloween due date.

In other, possibly just as big news...another opportunity has presented itself. A house has become available to us.

If you look back to one of my first entries, I talk about falling in love with Dustin against a picturesque country setting here in PA. When we initially decided to move here, that was the idea we had as far as living accomodations. As things turned out, we found ourselves living in the city instead. In hindsight, it was the right choice. We were incredibly unfamiliar with the Scranton area. We knew there were not so safe areas both in the city and right around the city. As I mentioned earlier, it's kind of a dirt chicken city. Very depressed. There are areas that are charming and safe, but this city was once a booming, factory type area...and that ship sailed about fifty years ago. The depression is evident in the skeletons of the majority of the buildings, the haggard people you come into contact with, the empty streets and boarded up businesses.

The apartment we decided on is by FAR one of the most expensive in the city. We chose it because it was two blocks from Dustin's work and in a secure office building. There are a lot of pluses about it. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Central air. A washer and dryer.

As time passed, however, big concerns started to surface. First, the size. Having never had a child before, Dustin and I underestimated just how much space their crap takes up. Just the BOXES of the cradle and carseat encompass half of our bedroom. As my belly grew, so did our trepidation about raising a baby in a five hundred square foot apartment.

Our place is right in front of the could-not-be-more-incorrectly-named "Red Carpet Inn." We saw the hotel when we were checking out the place and some of the shady characters hanging around outside and pointedly asked our landlord what the deal was. He replied with a vague, "well, nobody LIKES that hotel....but it's safe and nobody lives there full time." LIAR!! That hotel has been the bain of our existence since we moved here. Aside from the never ending parade of prostitutes and drug dealers that CLEARLY call the Red Carpet Inn home, the proprieters of this hotel also like to have what I'll refer to as "Drunken Sixteen Year Old Night" where approximately 500 teenagers show up to brawl, drink and scream in the parking lot all night long. On a Wednesday. We've had to call the cops numerous times. Not exactly a baby friendly environment.

The other lie our Landlord spun was that there was no noise in our apartment building because of the fantastic construction. When we snagged this place, the only one available was on the second floor with an apartment right next door and directly above. In keeping with the lying theme, our Landlord had assured us that he didn't rent to students. (Scranton has several colleges and more than 90 percent of renters are students.) Having lived in noisy situations before, we tried to protect ourselves by making sure we'd be in a quieter environment.

Both our next door neighbor AND the person above us are young, single, male students. Our next door neighbor has an assembly line of drunken visitors on any given night that smash up and down the hallway in front of our apartment door, scream while they play beer poing inside of his place and then stumble back out into the hallway at four am very loudly. I could even deal with that, but it's the upstairs neighbor that comes close to me killing him on a daily basis.

We had neigbors up there when we moved in, a couple in their forties that I rarely heard until they moved out. When our new neighbor arrived, we suffered through a weekend of him moving in (I assume most of his crap is made of concrete judging by the noise it made when he put it into place) telling ourselves that once he was settled things would quiet down. NOPE.

Every day and every night...at all hours...we are treated to the sound of this averaged sized person stomping around, dropping things, moving things and, judging from the noise, bowling. He has no set schedule, so there's no way of ever knowing how long these episodes will last. Sometimes we hear it for thirty seconds at midnight, sometimes for an hour at four am. Sometimes he has guests over that wear heels. Sometimes I think he's dribbling a basketball.

Things with inconsiderate upstairsey got so bad that Dustin had to go up several times, getting progressively more mean about the noise. There was no change in behavior. Pregnancy has made me hypersensitive to said noises, so after a particularly long episode of bashing around, I emailed our landlord, politely, asking that he look into the situation. He replied curtly, informing me in an assholey manner that while he'd look into it, he had "never had a noise complaint before" and that if I were "unhappy he'd be glad to let me out of the lease as there is a waiting list for these apartments."

Again...Liar. It took him more than 2 months to rent out the upstairs apartment and OUR place was on craigslist for at least 12 weeks before we took it.

I wanted to write back, pointing out all of the problems I had with him, but instead I thanked him for looking into the sitch and saved the email so I had his offer of breaking the lease in writing.

The noise is still horrendous...in fact, as I type, I am watching my computer monitor shake with every step upstairsey takes.

So Dustin and I start to have mild panic attacks about a month ago, realizing that we were sort of boned. We were not looking forward to trying to find yet ANOTHER place to live. We didn't want to live in an apartment anymore. We didn't know the surrounding areas well enough to commit to something.

Then, as the universe has done repeatedly for us over the past few months, an opportunity presented itself.

My father and stepmother have a house in a quiet community about a half hour south of Scranton. We've been making a point to visit them when they're up here. Their community is approximately fifteen minutes from where Dustin's family has their cabins, so it's an area we're familiar with.

Deirdre's brother and father also have houses in the community and as it happens, her brother was in the process of purchasing her father's home. (Her dad has decided to move to Florida full time to enjoy his golden years.) Her brother, Ed, was looking to "rent to own" out Deirdre's Dad's house. Well, guess who was in the market to rent to own??

We went down there a week or two ago and checked out the house. It was everything we wanted when we originally decided to move to PA. A little cabin, in the woods, on a lake. It has a wood burning stove, a fireplace, a sunroom, a huge living room, kitchen, master bedroom and dining room and an awesome loft bedroom. The inside is that knotty, rustic wood that you see in Norman Rockwell paintings. We loved it but kept our cards close to our chest and Dustin began the negotiations. I am a notoriously horrible negotiator and Dustin and I decided to assume the roles of 1960's housewife and husband in this particular situation...meaning I kept quiet and he made the decisions.

Ed and his wife Joan offered, Dustin counter offered. The variable here is that we'd be responsible for our utilities, which we prefer...but the electric is an unknown. Winters are brutal here and if you're not taking advantage of the wood stove and fireplace, you're lookin at a killer bill. Nobody has lived in this particular house full time in the winter, so exactly how much the bill will be is a mystery. We can ballpark it, but we wanted them to come down on the monthly payments (rent) so that it gave us a little wiggle room. We left it off with them thinking our counter offer over.

Today, they accepted. And so did we.

I am anxious, as is my nature, but also very excited. I worry about Dustin's commute to work, my commute to the hospital (when the time comes) and being so far from him in general. (We've been spoiled with a close proximity throughout our relationship.) I realize most people have at least a half hour commute to work, so that's comforting. I absolutely DREAD having to move again, but at least this time it's not as far...and because the place is not going to be move in ready until October first, I'll be just over eight and a half months pregnant so my participation will be limited. (Selfish, I know.)

I guess this pregnancy's theme has been stress. I often wish that I could have had a full nine months of relaxation and tummy rubbing instead of family dischord, moving and joblessness...but this experience has challenged Dustin and I in very good ways. When you think about it, we were able to pull ourselves from homeless, jobless, uninsured pregnant messes to Dustin having a great job (which he's kicking ass at, btw) and a freaking HOUSE.

I've always heard that things have a way of working out, I've just never experienced it on this grand of a scale. I feel completely solid in my relationship with Dustin, knowing that not ony have we already survived more trials than most couples will go through in the entire course of their relationship, but our love has in fact gotten stronger. I feel excited to take on the challenges of parenthood with such an awesome partner beside me.

I'm thankful for the support of my father and stepmom Deirdre, who have been there for me when my mother's side of the family has not. I am extremely happy that my daughter will have them as grandparents. (They have requested to be called "Da" and "Mumsy." I said that the kid names the grandparents, so we'll see how that works out.)

I'm thankful for Dustin's family, who has made the trek to Scranton several times already to be close to us. They've supported us every step of the way and have already surrounded the baby with an amazing family...which is more than most people enter the world with.

I'm thankful I've been mostly healthy and the baby has been perfect, even though she really enjoys smashing my bladder and plays a little game called "let's try to break mommy's hips" every day.

I feel like I've maxed out my universe credit card and at any moment, things will crumble. But maybe my line of credit has been extended due to the 20 something years of crap I had to endure before getting to this point. I hope the universe accepts me doing everything in my power to raise the best, happiest, kindest human being I can and loving her father and our family with all my heart...because I think that's the best way to repay my debts.

ULTRASOUND-That's How I Spell RELIEF.

So today I had my final Ultrasound of the pregnancy. I think every pregnant woman agrees that the Ultrasound is the most reassuring part of being pregnant, especially with the first baby. So much is going on with your body there's just no way to tell what's normal and what's not.

I'm 25 weeks and a few days pregnant today, but from week 22-25, I was very uncomfortable. I had a lot of weird pressure in my lower abdomen, to the point of being almost painful. Of course when you google these symptoms, you get the scariest possibilities, along with the possibility that your baby is simply growing. Today we learned the reason for the strange feelings over the past few weeks. Here's what happened...

First of all, it's about a thousand degrees out today. I've been struggling with dehydration a lot lately, so we decided we'd drive the few blocks up to my doctor today instead of walking. I don't know how much that helped because we were there before the air conditioner even kicked in. Dustin was all decked out in his work gear...I caught all the ladies in my doctor's office checking him out. One major bonus I love about this practice over my LI practice is that my ultrasounds are done in the same building as my doctor's appointments. I used to have to go to a different place. So we check in for the ultrasound and meet our tech...who is the NICEST EFFING PERSON ON THE PLANET. She took her time with us, showing us every little detail and getting some truly amazing pictures.

The baby is getting big. I was very uncomfortable because up until a day or two ago, she was still laying sideways. She's now head down, and while I can feel her kicking my lungs, she's no longer jammed in my hips, which was EXTREMELY icky and the reason for my severe discomfort. Her head is resting right on my bladder, which explains the 900 trips to the bathroom each day, but I don't even care. Everything was PERFECT.

You may notice I'm using the "she" pronoun more freely. Yes, we got 100 percent confirmation that it's a girl. She was super cooperative today, twisting and turning and giving our tech the opportunity to get shots of all of her important parts...we saw the heart with four perfect, thumping valves, a perfect spine, a completely normally formed face, two kidneys and a million other little measurments that are beyond my medical knowledge. All in all though, the results were PERFECT across the board.

She has very big feet, and looooong fingers. Her little cheeks are getting chubby...both the ones on her face and her butt. She's measuring 24 weeks, 6 days everywhere except for her belly, which is about a week ahead of the rest of her. I am not surprised, look at her mom.

I need to write a nice note to that sono tech. She really took her time and was so nice. She explained everything. It was NOTHING like the last sono I had on the island, where the woman spent a total of 8 minutes with us before giving up and saying "it's probably a girl...she wasn't really being cooperative."

I said to Dustin that I think it just hit me today that this is actually happening. I think that caught him off guard. He asked why it took this long to realize that...and I ashamedly admitted that I was afraid something would go wrong and make this all go away. I was so uncomfortable...and feeling so weird for the past few weeks, I had convinced myself that something horrible had happened. After getting through the ultrasound with flying colors...and then the pee test (normal) blood pressure (117/72) and the weight check (10 pounds total so far in the pregnancy)...I realized that sometimes you just feel shitty when you're pregnant. There were a few days I could barely move...but that's normal when you have a big footed kid jabbin at your insides, I guess.


We walked away with the most incredible pictures so far. One just makes my heart melt and I can't stop staring at it. It's my baby girl, looking right at us, with a HUGE, open mouthed smile. It's incredible. We were able to see her moving her little mouth pretty much the entire time, and it just makes it so real. A little person, with a little mouth...and a huge belly and feet.

Things I Struggle to Understand (Working Title: Things that Piss Me Off.)

Sometimes I just like to get some thoughts out in front of me. I don't know if it's pregnancy hormones or my generally irritable nature, but some things have been getting under my skin lately. Maybe if I purge them, they won't bother me so much.

If You Dress Like That...You're Asking For It...

My primary activity lately is watching television. Yeah, I know I should be doing something a little more productive...perhaps use this time to read some parenting books...or do some yoga...maybe paint a mural or learn how to bake a pie from scratch...whatever it is that good people do...but I've chosen to watch a lot of TV instead. I honestly have been feeling like crap lately, so that's my excuse, but really...I just love TV. I've been working since I was fifteen years old and this is the first time I find myself with tons of time on my hands...and with the time I have to myself dwindling by the second, don't judge me for my choices.

But as much as I love television, my tried and true shows have begun to get stale. You know you watch too much TV when you start seeing reruns of Maury that you're able to quote. Or when you know what door the good prize is behind. Or when you no longer chuckle when Judge Judy says "Put your hand down, does it sound like you're losing?" So I've had to go a little rogue with my programming choices. One show that I've recently started getting sucked into is the most horrible, terrible, no good very bad piece of crap on TV...Toddlers and Tiaras...also known as "Crazy Moms and Bratty Whores."

(Yes, I know these kids aren't whores, and it's not right to call a three year old a whore, but if I saw a 20 year old dressed/painted up like these kids, odds are that's what her profession would be.)

Alright so, the premise of this show, if you haven't seen it, is young girls (and the random boy) and their crazy moms (and the random dad) participating in pagents. For money. Being a girl and about to give birth to another girl, I have some difficulty grasping why anyone would do this to their child.

I'll admit, if I think back to my three year old self, I would probably have been drawn to the make up and dresses. But I don't think I would have been into the waxing, tanning, fake teeth, fake eyelashes, constant rehearsal and then ultimate judgement by strangers. My mother, while fitting the "crazy" requirement, luckily had enough brainpower to keep me away from this world, even though I have seen pictures of me in halloween costumes all done up and I'm positive I could have been the best looking little whore at the pagent.

But aside from the very peodo feeling I get from these pagents, I am more disgusted at the fact that these girls are being taught a terrible lesson: It REALLY matters what you look like. Having steadily watched this show for a few weeks now, there are no crowns for "most intelligent" or "friendliest" or "kindest" or "nicest to old people." It breaks my heart to watch the "losers" of these pagents cry because they "weren't pretty enough." It makes me nauseous to watch them compare themselves to their peers physically.

And as if to prove my point that these pagents are doing damage, these little kids are often the nastiest specimens of human life I've ever seen. They curse, they cry when they don't get their way, they act entitled, they are often physically abusive and they cut down the other little girls as often as they can, often to the amusement of their frumpy, uneducated overbearing mothers.

I understand that T and T is manufactured for entertainment value. I get that I'm probably witnessing the extreme side of this lifestyle. I'm sure there are a small percentage of little girls that particpate that don't end up getting pregnant before they graduate Jr. High. But it's gross and I don't understand it. There will be plenty of time for these girls to be judged in the future. Why put that on the shoulders of a three year old?

I Have Never Been Pregnant, But I Could Easily Raise Your Kid

I knew to expect some unsolicited advice when I announced I was expecting. (I haven't found a term for pregnancy that I'm comfortable with. Whenever I write "expecting" I feel like I'm waiting for an online purchase to show up.) What I DIDN'T know was that a ton of that unsolicited advice would come from people who DON'T HAVE CHILDREN.

Look, I'm actually all for advice and tips. I actually really enjoy exchanging pregnancy experiences with other moms and pregnant friends. It's oddly comforting. I'll even entertain some parenting advice. Most of the time I'm totally not going to follow said advice, but every once in a while there's a nugget of info that I'm grateful for. Contrary to popular belief, however, not all first time parents are complete morons when it comes to child rearing.

Dustin and I are both the oldest in families that have much younger kids. This means that we've been around babies and toddlers and preteens for longer than a lot of parents our age. Between us we've changed thousands of diapers, been barfed on, pooped on, given suppositories, heated formula, made ba-bas, went on searches for missing pacifiers and favorite toys, driven kids to the hospital, comforted crying babies in the night, soothed boo boos and so on and so forth. Yeah, perhaps I accidentally bonked my second youngest brother's head on the doorframe a few times due to carrying him unwillingly towards the bath he didn't wanna take and once when I wasn't watching my little sister very closely she walked into a mailbox and knocked herself out...but I have a feeling these things will happen when I'm a parent too.

So to everyone out there who speaks to myself and Dustin as if we have NO idea what we're in for...we have a pretty good idea...and despite seeming a little left of center, I'm pretty sure we will have things under control most of the time.

Back to what I was saying...and I know this whole sentiment is coming off a little dicky, but like I said, I need to purge...if you've never carried a human being inside of you, please don't tell me how to manage my symptoms...and if you've never raised a child, don't presume to tell me the "right" way of doing things. Look, I realize that you don't have to carry a child to be a parent. Adoption, Fostering, being a step-parent...all totally important forms of parenting. All I'm saying is that if you've never actually CARRIED A HUMAN BEING INSIDE OF YOU...then I will not take your advice on how to manage round ligament pain or braxton hicks contractions or what my birth plan should be. (BTW, my birth plan is to get this kid out of me. That's it.)

And while I'm at it, please don't start out your statements to me with this: "You think that's bad just wait for..." I don't care how bad your kid was at 3, 9, 13, 16, etc. I don't find you wiser for your experience. Don't give me vague warnings of eminent disaster. Not interested.

Can't...Find...Descriptive...Words

I fancy myself a bit of a vocabulist. That is a word my mother made up a long time ago. It means "someone who likes to use words." She and I are self proclaimed vocabulists. I've never had a problem expressing myself. I write for fun. I read for fun. My "fights" consist of using my words to cut down my attacker. I'm not the most brilliant speller, but I think that's mildly forgivable when you're such an awesome vocabulist.

When I first heard about "Mommy Brain," I was like...okay wonderful. Stupid women across the world have an excuse when they're pregnant. But let me tell you...it's for REALS. In the last few months, I struggle on a daily basis to find words. And I'm not even talking about complex words...I have recently found myself pointing to things like bread, water and cheese like a monkey, frustrated because the names of those things were completely gone from my memory. And forget about when someone asks me to describe specific pregnancy symptoms. When I first started to feel the baby move, Dustin asked me what it felt like, and I stared at him dumbly and replied "it feels like a baby moving."

Have you ever seen "Waiting For Guffman?" It's a great movie and I highly recommend you rent it. There's a scene where Christopher Guest's character is angry with another character on the other end of the phone. He's so angry that he can't think of a good insult. He sputters out "Well then...I just...hate you...and I hate your stupid...ass face!" That's about the level of vocabulism I'm at right now. Quite annoying.

Hey Cats...Shut the Hell Up

I've complained about this before...it's not a new pregnancy related thing. I love my cats, but they have no idea how close they come to death on a nightly basis. We've been doing something a little ridiculous lately: moving the mattress into the living room to sleep. I don't know if it's the extra support of the floor rather than the door frame or the fact that I can't hear my stupid asshole neighbor stomping around next door from the living room, but I have been sleeping much better in this set up. When I sleep better, Dustin sleeps better, and everybody wins. The ONLY problem that still exists are the idiot cats.

We've somehow managed to finally train them to sleep MOST of the night. This is due in part to me keeping them up during the day with me. They now go to sleep at about 11 and wake up between 5 and 7. When they sleep til 7, it's a good day. When they're up at five, heads almost roll.

Before I go on, you're probably giggling, thinking of my screaming daughter waking me up at all hours of the night. Yeah, again, I'm not a moron, I know this is what happens with babies. I can't breast feed, rock or change my cat's diaper to get them to simmer down, however. Also, I'm fairly certain my newborn won't be loudly scratching litter for fun for 45 minutes, getting into cat wars with the other cat, meowing at the wall, standing on my head with claws out, biting my feet with fangs, or trying to eat the window blinds.

We bought a water gun, and that sort of works...but it gets them all riled up and angry. So if you spray them, you get a few minutes of silence followed by even more destructive behavior.

Judging by the fact that I still love these stupid furballs and haven't accidentally left the door open for them to escape, I have a feeling I'm gonna be a great mom.

If You Stand Any Closer To Me, I'm Gonna Punch You in the Face

People in PA have no sense of personal space. This phenom was bad in LI, but nowhere NEAR as horrible as it is here. Waitresses will pretty much sit in your lap to take your order. The person behind you at the grocery store will be able to memorize your purchases. People walking along the street at the same time as you will not only be able to smell your shampoo, but they will be able to count the freckles on the back of your neck.

Nothing makes me go from happy to punchy faster than this up your ass behavior.

And now, because this blog has made me sound like a miserable A-hole, Here is a List of Things I Really Like

This summer has been thunderstormy. Best. Weather. Ever.

Feeling the baby move. Sure, it's brought me dangerously close to wetting my pants on more than one occasion (I'm carrying very low) but it's the best feeling. It's so reassuring. And I just keep thinking of those cute little toes that I'm gonna bite.

Air Conditioning. Today was the hottest day in Scranton, nearing 100. I was unaffected and the air was only turned to 74.

Looking at Dustin. Allow me a moment of cheesiness, please. He is, after all, the father of my child. I have never looked at another human being with as much love and respect as I look at this man. Every time I see his face, I see everything I fell in love with. I love watching him walk to the apartment, determinded and strong. I love watching him sleep, even if it's loudly with his mouth open right in my face. I love feeling him snuggle up to my beach ball with legs body in the middle of the night. I love his huge hands and picture them holding my daughter, protecting her from the world. I didn't know myself or what I was capable of until I met him and I am happy and grateful to get to spend my life with him every day. Even when he farts in bed.

The Internets. Without these internets, I would be lost. I spend 80 percent of my time in my new home alone. (If you don't count cats and fetuses, but none of them are good conversationalists.) I am able to talk to my friends and family whenever I want, all day. It's keeping me sane and comforted.

TV. I mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. I love TV. I always have. So much more now though. I feel like for the next three weeks I have unlimited TV in front of me and it makes me so happy.

Food. This is the only time in my life where I've allowed myself to eat without guilt. I never really restricted my diet before this, obviously, but I will admit that I would get guilty over eating too much ice cream or more than 6 tacos in a sitting. I should probably ease off the sweets, but I don't beat myself up over it. And strangely, this is the SLOWEST I've gained weight in my life.

Not Using a Blow Dryer. I recently got a haircut. I was a RELIGIOUS user of hair dye...my mother put highlights in my hair when I was 9 and I've changed the color consistently since then. I have not dyed my hair in six months and can clearly see my own, natural hair now. It's sort of a grayish, brownish, ashy blondish. And curly. I cut off the majority of the old bleached out ends and now I don't have to blow dry it into place. It just falls correctly. It's nuts. I love not sitting under that damn Satan's Breath for 30 minutes anymore.

Thinking About Christmas. Christmas is my favorite holiday and I've always wanted to have my own family to celebrate with. It's been a really long time since I've had a Christmas with toys under the tree and I can't wait to do that for my kid. This Christmas, the kid will be here. I might even send out totally lame Christmas Cards.

My legs hurt from being in one position for too long so I'm gonna stop abruptly. I thought purging would help, but I have also realized that thanks to Mommy Brain, I don't really remember what was bothering me when I started this.