Caught in a Bad Romance

I have a love/hate relationship with tulips.

I love them, they are so damn cheery and chipper.

(planted on the front corner last autumn)

I hate them, them are so freaking fickle.

A few years ago I planted a few hundred in a garden bed in the backyard. A mixture of pinks, reds and yellows grew to be a red, purple and stripey bed. And I forgave them, in all of their mis-matched glory I still loved those tulips.

Now, a few years have past and what do we have?


Where'd all my tulips go?

Kansas ate 'em. That's what happened. The state was all nom nom nom, taste-y tulips.

You have a better explanation?

I've officially given up on them this year and told Aaron it was time to do something else with that bed.

The trellis full of honeysuckle will obviously stay (y'all, I had to IM a coworker to be all "what's the word for a metal thing you put in the garden to support climbing plants? 'cause I'm pregnant and can't think straight") as will the hydrangea in front of it. The daylilies desperately need to be divided but will stay in the same area as well.

Past that, the only two plants in there are a miniature rose bush that needs to be dug up and have surgery preformed on it and some dying bushy thing that doesn't get enough sun.

Initially, before finding out was pregnant, my thought was to dig out the daylilies and bushes and roto-till the holy living baloneys out of the bed. Then plant a bunch of flowers.

But now, now I drop something on the ground I spend a few minutes analyzing if it needs to be picked up right away or if can wait for Aaron or the boys to be home, so someone else can pick up for me. Guess what usually happens.

There's a family story from Aaron's childhood, he was about 10 years old and asked his mom if he could dig a hole in the backyard.

"Mom? Could I dig a hole in he backyard?"

"Yeah."

"It's gonna be big."

"Okay, have fun."

"No mom, it's gonna be a big hole."

"That's fine, Aaron. Go have fun."

As the story goes, he spent all day outside digging this hole. By the time he was done, his head was below ground level, plus all the dirt was built up a good two or three feet above the ground 'cause the boy didn't move the dirt and he shoveled. A ladder was required to get him out of the hole.

(And he says I have an imagination.)

When asked why he dug such a crazy, insane hole he seriously replied, "So it would be below the freezing line for my fish."

"Your what?"

"My fish pond. Why else do you think I dug such a big hole?"

I pointed out to Aaron a couple of weeks ago that the one thing our garden was missing (besides a cherry tree, a grape arbor, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries) is a fish pond. And guess what we have? FREE LABOR.

Besides, what little boy doesn't want to go dig a great big hole (a great big hole, I might add, that will produce a spectacular amount of soil to use as filler in Aaron's vegetable patch) in the backyard? Mommy just needs to buy some shovels.

And finish getting Daddy on board.

I Go Crazy Wondering What There is to Really See

The perinatologist appointment went very well. I mean, as well as could be still having calcification on the heart.

The doctor wasn't the least bit worried about it though, all the bone structure measured properly, all the organs look good. Yay!

But due to the calcification and "my age" (yes, he said that and I was all WHACHA TALKIN' 'BOUT WILLIS? ) the odds of the baby having Down's is one in 211 - for once I feel like the odds are stacked in our favor. I go back in four weeks for more scans.

We've been busy enjoying the spring weather, making garden plans and blowing lots of noses.


And taking the baby chicks outside daily for "recess."

A word to the wise: baby chicks in the house makes your home very, very stinky. I'll be sad to see them go but I'll be happy to no longer have my house smell like tinkle.

Money for Nothin' and Your Chicks for Free

We had another sonogram on Thursday. A no-good, very-bad sonogram, if you ask me.

Yadda, yadda, heart problem, yadda, yadda, possible Down's, yadda, yadda, level II sonogram with a perinatologist obstetrician, yadda, yadda, DON'T PANIC.

Yeah, like I heard that last one very well.

So we go for the fancy-pants level II on Wednesday afternoon, fingers crossed everything will be okay. (Which? Internet research [which we all know is so reliable] points to a 95% chance of the baby being FINE.) (Also: NERD!)

One thing is for certain: YOU LOOK LIKE YOUR FATHER OHMYHELL I SHOULD RENT OUT MY UTERUS FOR CLONING, I'D BE SO RICH!


You also scratch your head just like your daddy. I'm certain you were trying to figure out what was poking you and if you're anything like me, MAKE IT STOP NOW GAWD.

In an effort to divert our attention from the craptastic news on Thursday, we've been overly focused on other adventures.


Run! RUN! Run for your lives! PIRATE CHICKS!

I'm Sippin' On Some Sunshine

I got my third shot today (sidenote: OUCH) and everything is slowly getting better.

Last week I was officially released from bedrest, but no one told my uterus. Many days have been spent on my back (and not like from the good ole college days) with my feet up. There was a time when, honestly, I thought measuring the circumference of my ankles daily would be a good idea.

For prosperity's sake.

But this week is so much nicer, the bulbs I stowed away last fall are beginning to bud.


And last week spring arrived. And promptly left. Don't believe me?


Oh, Kansas. You can be so damn fickle.

And today is certainly looking up...


My smoothie obsession is alive and kicking. I even bought one of those mixers where you mix everything in single servings but the big upside is all the components are dishwasher safe. This means I'm drinking two smoothies a day and even making gluten and dairy-free ones for the boys (sorbet, frozen fruit, rice milk).

This one is my favorite so far, low-fat greek yogurt, frozen berry mix, hemp seeds and low-fat milk. I actually made "nom nom nom" sounds.

And the garden is beginning to look up as well...




... and I'm starting to feel like me again. Real-me. Not crazy-ass-pregnant-with-preterm-labor-me.

Apparently three is a magic number.

The One That Wins Will Be the One Who Hits the Hardest

I'm not designed for breeding.

I know. One would tend to think with these hips and these boobs it wouldn't be any sort of issue for me. But it is. Huge, in fact.

I had my fourth month appointment today, and I've been grateful all week that it was coming up. Because, last night especially, I've been considering calling the doctor on call at night because the tightening of my stomach has been insane. And taking my breathe away.

And I? I would put my feet up, drink a glass of water and tell it to shut the fuck up.

Because, you know, that works.

My doctor concluded today that I'm having pre-term contractions at 15 weeks. It's not too terribly surprising, given this all started with that other doctor hullabaloo and has progressed into when I walk, when I cook, when I go up and down the stairs.

And given that I was on modified bed rest my later-half-of-my-second trimester and full third trimester with Griffin, went into full-fledged premature labor at 20-something weeks with Darwin and was hospitalized multiple times, on strict bed rest and should have had a nurse to keep track of all my keep-the-baby-in-there pills this whole scenario shouldn't come at a surprise, but it's damn disappointing.

The upside is the baby is doing fantastically, I just have a bitch of a uterus who's all "Hey! I know what we do with a baby! We evict it!"

My doctor has a new plan with this pregnancy, something that wasn't available with my other two. Starting tomorrow, I'll be getting weekly progesterone shots. The philosophy is that these shots will calm my uterus down with virtually no side effects - and in all previous patients, they have been able to carry to term without hospital visits and other interventions and have resume "normal" activity throughout pregnancy.


Dear Progesterone:

You better fucking work.

Hugs'n'kisses,
Laura

P.S. Please

It Doesn't Matter if it's Good Enough for Someone Else

I've got it in my crazy-ass pregnancy mind that I'm going to be dusting off my sewing area (and by "sewing area" I mean "that corner of the laundry room that I notched out for myself") and making quilts before the baby comes. Glorious quilts! For my whole family! Nevermind I have a few thousand projects in progress, these nine months will produce quilts! Because I'm not busy doing ANYTHING ELSE RIGHT NOW!

I've been on the hunt for a glorious white cotton for the baby's quilt and have been searching high and low. It has to be the whitest, the softest, the cottoniest fabric ever. Nevermind I have gobs of other white fabrics hanging around, those are simply not good enough.

So I've been ducking my head in this quilt shoppe and that quilt shoppe looking for a glorious white in which to use as my base. I finally stopped in a local store, ran by old biddies who are quite opinionated and I mean that as in quite opinionated in a way of which I don't quite appreciate but they do have some fabrics I never see anywhere else, so in my infinite awesomeness, I put up with their behavior.

Because I'll suffer quite a bit for the ideal fabric. More specifically: ideal fabric that doesn't break the bank.

So I went into the store, took at look at their solids and sighed.

"Can I help you find anything?"

"Yes, I'm looking for a white, soft cotton for the base of my quilt."

"Oh, you mean for the sashing?"

"No, it won't have sashing. For the base."

"But. Quilts don't have a base. They are patch worked."

"Yes, I know. Most do. This won't."

"No. That's not a quilt."

"Yes it is. In anycase, I'm looking for a white, soft cotton."

"Right over here."

"Thank you."

"No, you do realize you need to add some patchwork sashing to make it a quilt, yes?"

"No, I don't."

"But. All quilts have sashing."

Okay, I know she's trying to be helpful. And in my hands I have a glorious white, soft cotton fabric that's double-width and only eight dollars a yard. I know better than to fight or otherwise she's gonna take my fabric away.

"I know most do. But I'm not a traditional quilter. I'm a member of the Kansas City Modern Quilt Guild. Quite a few of us re-work the rules."

"Oh. Okay, then."

Whew.

"So you do realize you need to make your quilt top about two inches longer on all the edges so your Professional Quilter can quilt it for you, yes?"

"Oh, I'm gonna quilt it myself."

"No, you can't quilt it yourself. That's not Professional. No one will like it if you quilt it yourself."

"Um... thanks. But I'm quite certain my baby will like it just fine."

"Fingers crossed."

Ohmyhell, ohmyhell, ohmyhell. I paid and high-tailed it out of there.

Now, I'm not stupid. And I'm quite certain she was trying to be helpful. But really? Do you really tell your paying customer she's wrong in such a situation? I mean, fighting over facts is thing. But "it must be patchworked" and "it must have sashing" and "it must be professionally quilted" or "otherwise the recipient won't like it" aren't all those really opinions?

In anycase. I have High Hopes to get off my napping butt and begin working on a quilt.


And no, it will not have patchwork. It will not have sashing. It will not be professionally quilted. But I'm quite certain the recipient will like it just fine.

(My friend, Crystal, is forming a quilting bee if anyone is interested! Sashing not required.)

But I'm Here in My Mold, I Am Here in My Mold

We've been having a few fucking bad weeks over here, between head colds, Aaron traveling and basic life stuff I'm having a hard time finding the happiness. Hell. I'm having a hard time coping.

Even all the goddamn naps are pissing me off. A person who naps as much as I do should not be so fucking bitter. But lo, I am.

The true crux of the situation is really having to take Darwin to the doctor for potential pink eye two weeks ago. We love our doctor. I mean, love our doctor. She has multiple food allergies too, so she totally gets it. It's like speaking an undecipherable-to-the-normal-population, talking to someone else who has insane food allergies. We get each other and know what it's like.

And she's out on maternity leave.

(Which, I couldn't be happier for her and her family.)

And, thus, we had to see another doctor at the practice. The appointment was fine, they did a test on Darwin's eyes. But the issues began when they called with the results and decided to go through our medical records and, well... it's just a mess. With insane accusations of our family not having allergies and magically falsifying reports to prevent immunizations on their behalf. Which? I don't feed my children a gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, legume-free, nut-free, soy-free, squash-free, citrus-free diet for fun. And the request of the office manager for me to write up what happened so she could submit it to the practice's review board... which, yes, basically sounds like what happened is going to cause this doctor and his staff to lose their jobs.

The whole situation is just totally nauseating. The way I was treated was horrible. Treating anyone that way would be horrible, let alone a pregnant person with a history of premature labor. It's really fucking awful. And now needing to stare at a computer and needing to regurgitate what happened is causing me to have a panic attack. But if I don't, who's going to insure that this doesn't happen to another patient at that practice again?

Blarg. I'm so sick of Adult Responsibilities.


On another note, the puppy has decided winter gloves are a taste-y nom nom. I have decided to kill her. But not really. Damn dog.

You Can't Fence Time

After an amazing amount of anticipation, Griffin turned eight this weekend.


Eight years old. My hell. Time flies.

Apparently eight year olds...

Like gluten-free, dairy free chocolate chip pancakes on their birthday, doused in maple syrup.

Backugan, Pokemon and other things their mothers just don't understand are totally awesome. And inspiration for many art projects and homemade games.

Think dads are the best. And a baby in mom's tummy is a close second, only because "the baby makes you so sick, it's awesomely ornery!"

Could eat tacos at every meal. And gets upset if it's not served.

Is favored by the puppy. By a lot. And he doesn't even feed her.

Is counting down the years until he moves out. (And? Really, dude? You're eight? And already talking about being 18 and moving out of here? Ouch.)

Would be happy to have friends over all day, everyday.

But would prefer not to be the center of attention.

Agrees he's still my baby. Forever. No matter what.

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

When I Get All Steamed Up, Hear Me Shout

Here's a little groundhog
Furry and brown
He's popping up to look around


If he sees his shadow
Down he'll go
Then six more weeks of winter - OH NO!