T.K.O. ...more or less...

no. 656 - The Good Old Days

Do you know what the one-finger wave is? If you grew up in a rural area, you probably do, it's just that in modern times it not only has taken on a new meaning, but has been updated to a different finger.

When I was a kid, on any given day when we were out for a drive, almost every car we met on the highway acknowledged our presence with a simple lift of the index finger from the steering wheel, and always it was returned by my Mom (or Dad depending on the who was the driver). It must have made both of them nuts when we would ask each time, "Who was that?" It was rare that they ever knew. It was considered common road courtesy of the times.

I also remember the warning flash of headlights an oncoming car would give us to indicate a patrol car was up ahead. It always meant to slow down (especially appreciated if you were hauling ass with your six other friends to a neighboring town for a football game in your prized "land yacht").

And if there ever was a car pulled over on the side of a road with their flashers on, minus the patrol car, there would always be a handful of other cars stopped to offer assistance. Even I have had the privilege of watching a couple of gentleman change my tire while I stood out of their way, chatting with the wives, twenty years ago.

Our overall recognition of each other as fellow human beings isn't just limited to the bubbled lives of our cars, either. This weekend as XBoy raced ahead of us to the church entry, I watched as a woman entered the doors and even though she saw my son just reaching for the door, she let it go. If I hadn't lunged for the heavy door, his fingers would have been smashed.

We avert our eyes walking in the mall, or down the streets, so we don't have to smile or say good morning to strangers.

When did our society become so . . .  anti-social?

I'm just as guilty as the next person, too, if not more so. I'm reminded of that when I'm pleasantly caught off-guard when a teen-ager holds the door for me instead of peeling off with his/her friends. We try to raise our kids to be polite and remember their manners, but it would seem that it's the adults, who after so many thankless deeds and feeling invisible, that forget how effective an acknowledgment of being, is. When did "please", "thank you", and especially "you're welcome" and "hello" get to be archaic?

Maybe we can practice waving with one finger (the first one); make eye-contact and smile at a stranger; or add "please" to our coffee order at the drive through.

If it feels awkward, it means we aren't doing it enough.

no. 655 - Update on the Sit Down

I was wondering if I had imagined the sit-down for Mother's Day...until I read Pamela Jeanne's recent post.

Thanks PJ.

Thank you, Mother in the Midwest.

no. 654 - Taking a Seat

Since the calendar was flipped to May, I've been thinking a lot about Mother's Day. I've experienced it at its best: I still have my own mother here to talk to and seek advice from, who more often than not lately makes me want to pull out every eyelash I have - one at a time - as well as to be a mother myself; and at its worst: to have the past couple of years go by that serve as reminders that Mother's Day 2005 was one of four (and the first) due date that found me in a vacuum of depression. I think of May 8th as not just a missed due date, but a "should have" birthdate for a baby girl who might have turned three this year, if only...if...

Sometime last May, after Mother's Day, I read about a blogger* who decided to remain seated during the Mother's Day blessing at her church. It was her way of remembering the women who ache for a child but battle against the cruel odds of infertility.

That idea has been with me all these months, and this year I will follow suit and remain seated during Sunday's blessing. It's a simple action, but one taken because I simply have no words that could possibly sooth the pain that generally goes without acknowledgment in too many.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* I apologize for not having a link as I cannot recall who it was. If you know, please feel free to email me and I will udpate.

no. 653 - Spork You

I was asked recently by one of Mr. DD's relatives, "How's project number two coming along?" I can't begin to explain how torn I was between scooping out his testicles with a spork or replying, "Glad to know that four of those other pesky non-pregnancies don't count towards my list of 'projects'." And yes, I would have been as equally annoyed if he had asked about "project number six"...

A co-worker asked about my due date, with which I replied sometime in July. They persisted and wanted to know beginning, middle or end of July? I said that I was shooting for the middle, depending on when we could schedule my c-section...."Oh, YOU'RE the reason the cost of healthcare continues to skyrocket!" Again, the thought of spork-mutilation crossed my mind as I smiled thinly in reply and thought, "Fuck you sideways, asshole, as I think my insurance can cover that little, minor detail of a surgical delivery considering I've hemorrhaged thousands of dollars (not to mention a little blood here and there) these past few years just to get to this point."

In an unbelievable moment of stupidity, I thought I would try to spray paint something for a school project last night while still in my work clothes. When the can sputtered and shot BLACK paint all over my arm, in a panic I did a quick personal pat-down to make sure it only hit my skin. I almost breathed a sigh of relief until I spied my shoes. Right on the toe of my fairly new Sofft skimmers, a black drop of paint. If the tines of my spork were still intact, I would gouge out my own brain as punishment for its uselessness.

no. 652 - Color Wheel

A few nights ago, XBoy was watching a basketball game with Dad, and he made this observation: "There are more brown faces than peach faces playing."

I told him that people come in all different colors, not just peach and brown.

He objected to saying, " People don't have green or purple faces...except in heaven if that's what color they want."

no. 651 - I'll Huff and I'll Puff and Then Pass Out

The combination of pregnancy and being simply unfit physically hit me hard this weekend. When I say unfit, I refer to the stamina to do the basics necessary in running a household. I thought that it was laziness up till now, but one shouldn't find themselves light-headed and panting from a single trip down and then up a set of stairs and associate the problem with being lazy - of course one needs to kick in some BH contractions to complete that feeling of helplessness. OK, maybe I should've been less vegetative prior to getting pregnant, but at this point there's not much I can do about that.

I am seeing only the tippy-top of the iceberg on how  rough this last trimester is going to be. My most favorite thing to do has now become a dreaded event: sleeping. It doesn't matter what time I go to bed, I wake up without feeling rested. I've even started snoring! But the reason I don't feel rejuvenated is the constant aching of my back and hips that keep me awake. Tylenol PM whispers to me almost every night.

Mr. DD and I worked on trying to clear the den/game room this weekend and moved XBoy's gaming entertainment to the basement. While Mr. DD did all of the heavy moving, we both realized rather abruptly that I'm going to be nothing more than the foreman when he had to force me to sit down to literally catch my breath. Even worse, I went outside with XBoy to play catch and after walking up the stairs from the patio to the deck, I had to call down to him to let him know I wouldn't be back down as I was on the verge of collapse. To see the disappointment on his face...well, that hurt emotionally more than any physical discomfort I've had.

That whole nesting thing that supposedly occurs in the final weeks of pregnancy? It looks like it's going to prove to be more than problematic.

no. 650 - This One Might Take You All Weekend to Get Through

Why hasn't any one ever blogged about how much the glucose tolerance test sucks, and mightily?

While no one little moment was awful, it was a culmination of sucktitude, like flies. One fly I can cope with 100? Not so much.

The auspicious beginning included me waking at 5:00 a.m. and being so worried about over-sleeping, I couldn't get back to sleep. Instead I catnapped off and on for the next hour.

I did remember to bring along my laptop, cell phone and a novel in case the laptop ended up useless (which it did).

I was one of three other women in the draw room for the GTT, so I thought about trying to strike up a conversation on commiserating, but it just didn't happen. One woman brought her daughter, who was about five, and her Mom. After the base draw to make sure we had sufficiently fasted, I expected Grandma to take Granddaughter somewhere - anywhere - so the girl wouldn't become whiney. Instead? They stayed the entire three four hours.

I was asked how I felt when they did the first blood draw post gluconate consumption (the second actual draw) and when I told the phlebo I felt woozy, she walked me over to the ICU waiting room...with recliners! and a couch! and the option to shut off the lights! and a TV all to myself!

For the second blood draw (are you keeping count? the third poke) I felt a little guilty walking past the other two ladies waiting out their GTT in the overly-bright draw waiting room (actually one had to sit in the hallway chairs with no TV b/c the patient who brought her Mom and daughter took up the only three seats in the waiting room), while I was "enjoying" some relative peace and comfort.

The final draw was at 10:45 a.m. The first was at 7:05 a.m. Basically four hours. The trio was gone when I walked by, but the third patient was still waiting. She was told about the ICU waiting room, but she decided to stick it out there even though she said that she had to spend the last half hour listening to the other woman talk on her cell phone WHILE ON SPEAKER! Who does that??

I felt pretty crappy after that, and even when I finally got something to eat. I slept for a couple of hours and now I'm finally feel up to updating. Now even if you don't care so much about glucose tolerance tests, maybe someone looking for info will. All I can say to them is dress comfortably and bring something to occupy yourself. Also, don't assume you'll feel up to returning to work afterward.

And no, they don't place a port for the draws. I add that because my husband asked. It's four separate pokes...if you're lucky...since you will be dehydrated as well. My last draw was done with a butterfly because my veins had shrunken so much.

Really, I'm sorry this was so dull. I'm still out of it. I can only hope the results are conclusive, even if I failed. I don't want to go through that again.

no. 649 - The Maternal Heart's Essence: May

While May hosts Memorial Day, for those who have gone through a miscarriage or infant loss, almost every day is memorial day for what was and what should have been.

If you would like to have a date in May memorialized on The Maternal Heart's Essence, please submit your information to the email on the About page of the site. Also, a note of reflection and remembrance for those already listed would certainly be appreciated.

The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.
-   Sara Teasdale, May

no. 648 - Hey, Hey! More Nail-Biting (not) Updates!

I went ahead and took the bull by the horns and scheduled my "three" hour fasting for Friday. Why they call it "three hour" is beyond me since it actually starts at midnight. I'm in bed by 9:00. Should I really try to get up before midnight, eat something, and then try to get back to sleep and hope I don't urp it up? Oh, the dilemma!

I'm going to see if I can bring my laptop while I'm between blood lettings to do some blogging or twittering or both. Should be exciting, no?

Also had a good chat with Mr. DD. He knows that he's been a ghost for both myself and XBoy. He confirmed that since his father is now displaying his old "charm" that it shouldn't be too much longer before they discharge him. As for time with us, he had decided to take a week off before the baby's due date to spend it with XBoy taking him to the zoo, parks, and whatnot. Then he plans on taking another week off after Murdock makes an appearance to be at home.

I didn't even have to cry or beg or make a crazy-ass fool of myself since he had already thought this out. It doesn't necessarily solve our more immediate issues, but just knowing that all of it has been on his mind helps.

Just for fun, I presented the girl's name to XBoy . . . I think he actually sneered at me as he repeated the name questionably out loud. Um, I take that's a "no" on the name? Like I'm going to let him have a say? HA!

no. 647 - Sugar Buzz Kill

Just wrapped up my 28w appointment. Fun facts?

Failed my glucose screening by one measly point. That's right. I've earned a three-hour visit to the hospital because I scored 131. I knew I shouldn't have had that bowl of cereal before chugging (and burping) my way through that nasty so-called drink.

Murdock's kidney size is just a scosch out of wonk. My OB explained that they see this in about 5-10% of prenates and almost all concerns are alleviated by the time of the birth. Nonetheless, it has earned me yet another scan later.

Speaking of size, Murdock is measuring approximately three days ahead of gestational age. Apparently, that is OK.

My iron levels are still low so my attempt to bring it up by not filling out the iron supplements script from a month ago and getting iron supplemented chewables didn't work. Suckage.

Lastly, I have to admit that at our 20w ultrasound I would have hedged my bets that Murdock was a girl. I now have to say I'm betting a boy. I had a girl's name picked out. Now I have to seriously consider a boy's. Coming up with one that strikes us both as "perfect" as XBoy's is going to be difficult. Maybe something that reflects Murdock's rural roots, like Hoss (I graduated with a Hoss), Virgil, or Bubba (which actually is more of a "southern" name). Feel free to make your own stereotypical suggestions.

I'm going to lay down now. I'm coming off a nasty glucose high.

no. 646 - Wishing You Peace

We come in awe-inspiring numbers, sisters in arms, for the cycles, repeated treatments, changes in treatments and sadly for the some of the infant loss, miscarriages and failed cycles.

We come in less numbers, hesitantly, for the positive pregnancy test, rising betas and heartbeats.

We come in even less numbers, sporadically, with feelings of obligation, to commiserate over the fears, doubts and questions that surround a burgeoning pregnancy.

We come but some, whether in anger or resentment or self-preservation, leave.

And yes, I do take it to heart, and if I didn't say something, it would hurt that much longer.

no. 645 - Not One of My Better Moments

I've been angry and resentful lately. About everything. About nothing. It's hard to explain. And as usual, I probably won't do a good job of it here, therefore you won't get it and I'll be even more resentful.

See? I'm just a ball of sunshine over here.

Mr. DD's father has been ill and hospitalized for 12 days now. Every night, Mr. DD spends the entire evening with him, and for some inexplicable reason (aside from selfishness), I resent it. Maybe some of it has to do with how little time he spent with me once XBoy was born. Even with minor complications and an extended hospital stay, he still went to work all day and come by in the evenings. I know there's nothing more he could do. It's not like his being there would make XBoy's glucose levels go up and the bilirubin levels come down. He didn't even take any time off from work once we came home. I haven't bothered asking if he will this time. But, I needed his presence.

His dad probably needs his presence right now, but I do, too.

It's not just his father's hospitalization that has somehow made me feel like a unmarried mother. Prior to this family emergency, from the time he got home from work until 11:00 at night, he would go out to his shop to work on his projects. Again, I try to understand that once the baby comes he will have little to no time to do "his" thing, but right now, I am physically incapable of doing so many of the things I wanted to get done this spring as well, including rearranging furniture for the bedrooms, and a last ditch effort to start a yard out front before the spring winds fill the house with dust.

I'm tired. I ache all over. I cry, alone. I want to feel adored. I want to be pampered. I want to go to bed at night and feel his arms around me and to wake up and find him looking at me with love...

Instead, I go to bed alone. He follows hours later. In the morning I awake alone as he's usually already up or I've moved to the other bedroom to escape the snoring.

I am angry and resentful that I cannot make the most out of not just an enviable position - pregnancy after infertility, but a last pregnancy; the one I swore I would enjoy and revel in.

no. 644 - Pimping the Etsy

Right before the Holiday season, I acquired my very own etsy account so I can do some Christmas shopping. I completely underachieved and only purchased one item, this blockprint on red paper for my bicycling-crazed sister. While my Mom was a little freaked out by it, my sister LOVED it. She's weird (and cool) that way.

Recently I started shopping for a checkbook cover. Yes, I still write checks. The sun goes behind the clouds, flowers die, and the poppers and lockers all freeze in unison when I whip out my checkbook. I don't care and most merchandisers around here don't mind, either, figuring it's better than me offering a dozen eggs, a slaughtered calf or pickled pigs feet in exchange for their services. This is rural Nebraska, after all.

But because I refuse to be of the norm, my checkbooks are of the top-stub type. Carbon checks are a royal pain in the ass because by the time you get to the 49th check, the carbons below have been all but obliterated. However, the problem I have with top-stub checks is finding a checkbook cover for them since they are too big for the cute ones found in department stores. The last cover I bought was from ebay: a horribly dull, black, "leather" cover that has become so abused that the "leather" is fraying around the edges and the black has cracked to brown. Yucky.

I checked ebay once again, sadly resigned to have to buy yet another dull cover, when I thought about looking on etsy. I found some perfectly gorgeous covers...for the standard checkbook. Taking a chance, I contacted Lori, shop owner of Thirty One 13 Designs about my dilemma.

She replied immediately and was positive she could create something up for me. Once I sent the dimensions and fabric preference, she whipped one up, just for little ol' me.

And here it is. Isn't it adorable?! So even though I'm holding up the line of 50 people at Target, they can all be swooning over my checkbook cover.

no. 643 - Donor Decision

I’ve been asked on separate occasions, whether by bloggers who are just finding out that they, too, have donor egg recommended to them; or by those just curious about donor egg, how we came to our decision to move forward.

While I have moments of second-guessing and even grief about donor egg, they are brief and nothing like the mental anguish I had when a cycle failed or when I miscarried. The chance of having another child, regardless of the means, was like a shiny object in the grass glittering with possibilities and promises.

When I read about other bloggers who struggle with donor egg, or even those who are frank enough to say donor assisted technology is absolutely NOT for them, each time I feel the doubt and worry wash over me anew. What if I made a rash decision? Did I give this enough thought or did I move forward out of desperation?

I say “I” because I’ve never talked about these wavering moments with Mr. DD. When the option was placed on the table and he gave his tentative blessing, I ran with it knowing how difficult it had been up to that time for him to take the leap of faith into the first IVF and then failing that, donor sperm. It took months for him to accept that a second child wasn’t going to come to us like the first.

While I know it will be important for Murdock to know about his/her conception, as well as for XBoy to understand, being able to have it all figured out now just doesn’t seem as relevant as it did at the beginning. There are just so many other things that I believe are more important than raising a child who understands the finer points of assisted reproductive technology.

I also strongly believe, whether you agree or not, that the egg that became Murdock came from the genetic donor, not the biological donor. I can’t say we would have chosen a known donor over anonymous if that had been an option. It’s an act of defeatism to try to imagine it. How many times do we already beat ourselves up with the “what ifs?” (what if we had tried to have children sooner; what if we hadn’t waited 3 years after the first one; what if that pregnancy wouldn’t have ended…)?

There’s no way that I’ll ever be able to push out of my mind that Murdock is the result of a stranger’s act, whether it was purely altruistic or if she was in desperate financial need. It only matters that she did and I’m sure I will silently thank her, and even curse her, a million times over during the time I have with Murdock on this earth.

Our donor may give Murdock some physical characteristics that are visibly different than both Mr. DD and me, but it will be Mr. DD, XBoy and I that will give him/her what’s immediately essential: love, strength, importance, and family. And those intangible items are what helped me decide that the one factual idea of donor egg was really the simplest hurdle to overcome.

no. 642 - Wrapping It Up

The pictures are scheduled Thursday evening. Each session is only 10 minutes long so I know it's not going to be an elaborate set up. I appreciate y'all weighing in either by vote or comment or both. We'll go with the majority vote and once we get the picture, I'll show you the final results.

It was also nice to hear from several of you that I haven't for a while. It's often pointed out that the best way to get comments is to bemoan the fact that you aren't getting comments. I'll try not to do it too often, potentially wearing out the pity-factor.

I guess I'm lucky that there's nothing else going on to warrant pity or empathy. Case in point: last night I realized that thinking of the time remaining on this pregnancy in a "count down" manner is more encouraging than thinking in either "three more months" or counting up to 40 weeks.

That means next week, once I make it through my 28 wk growth scan, I'll have just 11 weeks to go, max. While of course I'm feeling anticipatory, I'm also a little scared.

no. 641 - Opinions and Validation

The church is taking pictures for the Directory (of Ridicule). Which combination of clothing do you like best?

(if any one is still out there...hello? any one?)

Option #1

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Option #2

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Option #3

*

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*

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*

Here's the poll:

I thought about creating another poll to see if I'm really that boring, but my ego can't take it.

no. 640 - Flip This House

We are doing our best to make our home's personality borderline schizophrenic. After living here for just shy of two years, the following changes have occurred (some even before they were ever enforced) - or will occur shortly:

On the blue prints, it was the "Formal Dining Room."

The idea of a formal dining room chafed Mr. DD so much, that it ended up becoming a "Den."

The den actually is the "Game Room" where we send XBoy to play his Leap Frog, Nintendo, Atari, L-Maxx, etc. I find Mr. DD in there a lot, too.

The game room is getting converted into the "Spare Bedroom."

On the blue prints, it was the "Baby's Room."

During construction, I miscarried. It immediately became the "Spare Bedroom."

The spare bedroom will once again become the "Baby's Room", but I don't think I'll be able to say that out loud for a long time.

On the blue prints, it was "XBoy's Room."

It will remain XBoy's room, but I will finally let him have a decision in how he wants it to look for the next few years, since I went very neutral (read: bland) in paint selection and decor. Oddly enough, this room will be the most labor-intensive.

I have a lot of work in front of me. A chair and sleeper sofa have been ordered for the spare bedroom, but that's as far as I've gotten. They will take about six weeks to arrive. I'll sit on my thumbs until then.

The chicks have been returned to be with their brethren on the farm. My mom and agree that XBoy has very little animal instinct in him, unlike his mother. While some things (like mice) now can send me shrieking, I was bummed that I couldn't move fast enough to catch the gardener snake in the yard to show XBoy. I think my mom's shrieking fit scared it.

More on that for another time.

no. 639 - School Daze

I'm always envious of those of you who talk fondly of their school days. The friends you made and still have; your first crushes; your dances and whatnots.

I hated school. I can only remember the name of my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Stingley. She was the antonym of her name. The sweetest and oldest lady. Of course, she was probably only 40 at the time. Actually I remember Mrs. May. Ironically enough, she was a dour hag. I think she was my first grade teacher. And then there was Miss Something who I recall showing up to class with hickeys. Hickeys! She was a young teacher, very sweet. When I heard that she was dating Mr. Romohr, it was my first introduction to the Huzz. *blargh!*

So, yeah. I do remember some of the teachers, I guess.

However, it's totally not the point of my post. Sorry, I got a little sidetracked.

I figured once I made it to the real world, all that bullshit would be left behind to fade to dust in my aging brain. No one prepared me for the fact I would have to relive all those glory days when you have a kid. XBoy has already had three "years" of school at the tender age of 6. He has also (in no particular order): used his scissors to cut a school-mates shirt ("She always gets to be first!"; popped a kid in the nose ("He was choking me and he wouldn't stop and none of the teachers would help!"); and of course, was an accomplish in the kidnapping of his "best" friend, Zeke (you'll love this: the same kid he biffed in the face).

He is already trying to keep up with the Joneses:

"All the kids bring their WebKinz. Can I have a WebKinz?" We gave in, got him the lion, and now he wants the chihuahua (Thank You, Paris Hilton, you stupid, stupid cow), to which I answered, Hell No.

"I hate these pants! No one else wears this color!" Uniform pants need to be tan/khaki. They are just a little darker then his others and refuses to wear them, even though the are the last to not have holes worn in the knees.

Then there's, "Bigmouth MaGoo says he has a hundred-million-thousand dollars in his bank. How much money do I have?" So we tell him that he has "enough" (even though I think it'd be really freaking awesome to say, "Tell Bigmouth that you have enough to make him your Bitch." except I know that wouldn't be really appropriate. Or true. But could you imagine Bigmouth going home and telling his parents? "XBoy said I'm going to be his Bitch! Is that good?").

It's just not XBoy trying to keep up, we as his parents find ourselves trying to make sure we don't come across as bumbling, mouth-breathing idiots so the other parents don't think that we are the real life version of Raising Arizona. Unfortunately, we haven't been very successful.

We have forgotten to pick XBoy up when the school has had an early dismissal; we don't check the cafeteria menu so there are days he goes without lunch (because they are serving something unholy - like spaghetti - yes, it's true: we have the only child in the world who hates spaghetti, which also means he won't eat the "cold" lunch of PB&J since he hates jelly and they won't make it without); or on holidays we don't send him to school with treats for the class (May Day baskets, for example); and of course, let's not forget the participation in the Zeke kidnapping.

This almost blew up in my face last night. I finally had crawled into bed at 9:00 instead of 11:00 like the past couple of nights. For some reason, I thought about XBoy's backpack and that I hadn't reviewed the contents. And then I remembered that XBoy was responsible for bringing treats the next day to commemorate the letter "X" (he's the only kid with an X in his name). "Sonofa...!" said in my best Chris Farley impersonation as I whipped back the covers and headed for the kitchen.

So there I was last night, at 9:30, baking cookies (thank you, Lord, for Pillsbury sugar cookies!), frosting them (thank you, Baby Jesus, for the left over frosting from the letter "M" treat-day!), and stenciling the letter "X" on them with sugar sprinkles (thank you, God, for... uh ... sprinkles (?)).

XBoy woke to find that Mommy had pulled it out of her ass, once again. After two decades off from school, it looks like my future will now include another two decades of this crap. I guess I could always home school...with the assumption that I could actually teach my kid Reading, Rite-ing and 'Rithmatic, which is comical since I can't even seem to keep him from wiping boogers on his pants.

* NEWS FLASH * NEWS FLASH * NEWS FLASH *

Chick Update? Both not only made it through 24 hours, but now are on 36 hours healthy, hearty and noisier than two fighting tomcats. After calling my mother I was informed that she had no intent to leave them permanently at our home. She had purchased some pullets and thought XBoy would enjoy a couple of them for a few days. She will stop by Saturday to pick them up.

Good thing. I was trying to figure out how to finance one of these suckers (thanks, Tonya, for the link).

no. 638 - Now What Part Exactly Do Chicken "Fingers" Come From?

Coincidently to the prior post, I notice the door to the laundry room is open while we were sitting down to supper. I bit my tongue instead of creating a scene ripe for a food fight and once we had finished eating, went to address my OCD wife-iness.

Before I shut the door, I saw a zip lock bag sitting on the floor full of yellow, powdery stuff. "Aw, hell, now what hazardous material has that man brought into our house now?" I thought. First let me show you what I saw:

It looks innocuous enough, doesn't it?

I go to stand over it, while also trying to figure out why that stupid bucket is sitting in the middle of the floor (I have a few like that in the basement and there are several in the shop, leftovers from our cat-owning days, so it didn't immediately strike me as whacked).

When I did, something in the bucket moved. I startled. I leaned in for a closer look...

MOTHERFUCK!!

Literally.

Kind of.

My mother dropped these off for us, presumably for XBoy.

Don't ask what will happen next to them. Mr. DD is less than pleased with his MIL and asked if I was going to take them out and shove them down a badger hole. After briefly considering it, of course I told him no.

We haven't told XBoy yet. I'll wait to see if they make it 24 hours in the house, which is unlikely. It's probably not warm enough for them, even though I have the bucket situated over that heat vent and have the opening draped with a towel to reserve heat. I even threw in some easter grass for them to sit in instead of that lid with food.

Normal kids get goldfish. Grandchildren of farmers get livestock. And since it will be impossible (whether physically or mentally) to flush these poor bastards down the toilet if they die, I'll also be out in the field somewhere digging a shallow grave.

no. 637 - Ask You Once, Shame On Me; Ask You Twice, Nag On You

Do you know what the difference is between politely requesting a domicile task and nagging?

When you've made the request tenfuckingmillion times already, it becomes nagging.

Here's a list of the things I now nag about:

If you had to open the door to get into the room, shut the door when you leave it, e.g. the laundry room door, especially when the 20 year old dryer is grinding and pounding as if a rabid badger was trapped inside. This makes it impossible for me to hear Tyra Banks snark on one of the model wannabes inability to look "fierce".

Put your clothes in the hamper. Not just your pants/shirt. The underwear and socks, too. Especially the underwear and socks since they are completely vile and it's bad enough I have to touch them at some point to transfer them to the washing machine. Make a game of hoops out of it, if you have to. I don't leave my pregnancy panties strewn about, now do I?

On a related note: Do not put your dirty socks on the kitchen counter, because Duuude! that is so fucking janetjacksonnasty! And c'mon, you just walked by the laundry room (that you left the door open on....again), how hard is it for you to just put your socks in the basket?

Throw your nose tampons in the trash. Do not leave them on the bed/couch/counter/nightstand. (What? You don't know what a nose tampon is? It's when you take a tissue and roll it up into a tampon-shaped device and shove it up your nose to clear out those pesky boogers that won't come out through regular blowing.) Again, I don't leave my tampons around the house, all willy-nilly.

When you are done with the dishcloth, please rinse it, wring it, and lay it next to the sink. Now this one, being multi-directional, can be confusing, but please....a dishcloth shouldn't be an all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with a fountain drink, to errant cockroaches and mice.

And finally after you come inside from the garage, please take off your shoes and put them away. Yes, those shoes that you have tracked through spilled motor-vehicle paint, solvents and adhesive from work. No, I don't care that you are going to put them back on, because you aren't going to be putting them back on for at least another two hours since you will insist on taking a break to lounge around on the couch in your spilled motor-vehicle, solvent and adhesive soaked work clothes to watch America's Next Top Model with me (even if you make some really funny remarks about Tyra's current weave).

I'm going to put my shoes back on in 12 hours, but I don't leave them somewhere a pregnant woman could trip and fall over. Plus, you see this area that divides the garage from the kitchen? It's a "mud room"! With built in cubbies! For each of us! To hang your coat and put your shoes in! How fucking awesome is that! I know it's been only two years since we've lived here and it can take you a decade to figure these things out. I respect that in you, a man, who is oblivious to anything that doesn't have gears, or control buttons, or a flat screen. I still love you.

Of course, you could always refer to this website about why women nag and how men should respond to it. I'm not quite sure why the very simple solution to nagging wasn't mentioned and that is LIVE IT - LEARN IT the first time and then, Dear Heart, you would never have to hear me mention it again.

Otherwise, there's the old stand-by, Common Sense, right? Oh, yeah, you're a man. Never mind. I lost my head there for a moment. I can't be the only one...am I?

no. 636 - Getting It Off My (Sagging Boob-ed) Chest

I had several paragraphs in draft lamenting how my body has finally changed and the aches and pains that come with it and worrying about feeling guilty since I know I should be on my knees every day thanking the good lord for my good luck in being pregnant at all, and then I thought, so what?

If I want to bitch about it, then I should be able to bitch about it. Why should anyone think that I should be crossing myself over and over because a hemorrhoid (or a multitude of them) decided to bleed, giving me what I'm sure was a mild heart-attack when I went to the bathroom? Or how I've noticed in a completely random exploration of my body, that I have nipple- lint/jam? Or that I've thrown up in my mouth more times than in the toilet because my stomach has seemingly overnight eloped with my heart so any burp, harmless yet enjoyable 6 months ago, now is my cue to find a water-proof receptacle?

Maybe I should even be jumping for joy (if I could without stunning myself into temporarily paralysis with the inevitable Braxton Hicks) that my husband said to me this weekend, as I safely bitched to him, that I did "get pretty big really fast", considering that a month ago I was worried that the baby was going to be of gecko proportions at term.

Of course, let's not leave off the fact that by the time I take off my socks at the end of the day, that the pattern of the socks is left perfectly imprinted into my foot. Now I'm not talking about the tight-but-stretchy opening of the sock leaving a pattern. I'm saying that the PATTERN of the sock (let's say today - argyle) is imprinted into my skin, because the bloatiness is not content to micromanage my abdomen or face or fingers.

I hope you will bear with my overall malcontent I have with my body, which I realize is not going to get any better over the next 12 weeks. Especially since my diet has consisted of left-over Easter candy I've hidden from XBoy and evenings filled with CSI marathon showings on Spike. Maybe when I come down from my sugar high, I'll feel a little more remorse.