Thursday, August 2, 2012 totally feels like you need to poop...

I always laugh when I read books and magazines when women ask 'How will I know when I'm in labor?  I'm afraid of going to the hospital and being sent home, embarrassed.'  First, if you think you're the most embarrassing thing people at the hospital have seen, then you've never been to a little something called the 'emergency room'.  As a nursing school dropout, I can tell you that the things people put in their butts is astounding- your false labor is nothing.  Do you have a thermometer or a pop bottle wedged in your hiney?  No?? Come back when you do.  Then we'll talk.

Basically, labor feels like you need to poop.  Really, really bad for about 18 1/2 hours.  If you think you're actually going to have to go to the potty, then get your happy ass to the hospital lest you end up on a tv show called 'I Had My Baby in the Toilet at Waffle House.'  I'm not joking about that.  That is EXACTLY what it feels like.

Or, you can be like me and head to the hospital the second you feel anything stirring below your belly button.  (with the babiest Baby C, I sat at Chili's telling Frank "Daaayyyyum.  I need to go the bathroom. I think my puffy chicken was tainted.")  When we got home that evening, I told Frank to go to bed.  That I was gonna drive myself to the hospital, but I was sure I would be back in 30 minutes after they told me, of course, that I just needed to poop. I'm not kidding.  Ask him.)  Of course, this was my second baby, so I was probably dilated to a 17 or something (Side note:  If you're ever curious about the definition of the word 'love', just wait and see how delighted you are when your anesthesiologist comes in to give you your epidural while you're in labor.  I promised mine a bj. Once again, not kidding.) 

Oh!  This is kinda funny.  When the anesthesiologist was giving me my epidural with the biggest Baby C, Frank was all "Christine, you should see this- you would love this-  the needle is like 15 feet long and he's putting it in your damned spine..."  And I was all "I'll fucking go all Oklahoma on your ass and fuck you uppp if you keep....Oh, hell...why, hello handsome...")  With the babiest Baby C, I was a pro- my water broke when he was putting the needle in.  I didn't flinch.  Instead I gave the anesthesiologist a hug and said  "I love you and where were you during conception, when I really needed you?!"

All I'm trying to impart is this-  when you're in labor, you'll KNOW- because it fucking hurts.  And if you do go the hospital only to be sent home?? It's not a big deal at all.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Dear Corbin...

Happy Birthday, sweet baby- I want to be the first person to welcome you to your fourth year on earth.  Can you believe we've both made it this far?  Neither can I, but we did it!  An extra piece of cake for you and a nice present for mommy for surviving this last year- you keep me on my toes!  Thank God, you keep me young, too.

I gotta admit- I'm a little blue about this- three year olds are definitely babies, but four year olds?  That's the line in the sand- you're officially a big boy. 

I see your oldest brother, Kyle, at age 14 and he's almost a grown up.  He'll be driving in two short years.  I met him ten years ago and that time has flown by so fast it's ridiculous.  He looks like a teenager now.  He talks like a teenager.  He smells like a teenager.

I see your middle brother, the biggest Baby C, Colin, and he's looking 8 in the face.  I still vividly remember how scared I was when Daddy and I brought him home from the hospital.  I spent his first year of life terrified I would break him.   (or that he would break me- he was mean!)  He is starting to look like a middle school kid.  He talks like a middle school kid.  He smells like a teenager, though.  He's stinky.

You're my little Joe Joe- the tiny dude who sits on my boobs and holds my face in his hands when he wants my attention.  You're the voice I hear when I walk out of the room that's yelling "Mommy- where you going?  I NEED you!"  You're the frantic race to the front door when I walk outside when I get the mail.  You make sure I'm never lonely  ("Hey mommy- you taking a shower?  Ok.  I'll open the door so you not lonely.") or uneducated ("Mommy I want Team Umizoomi NOOOOWWWWW!!!!") or lazy (Mommy get up and play Power Rangers with me.  I the red ranger- you a Nighlock...")  You're my little Leo- it's all about you, all the time ("Mommy I'm so friggin' cute!")  You're my little tough guy ("Hey, Connie?  See my muscles?  They're huge.")

You're also the kid who pooped on the trampoline.  The kid who gave himself a mullet. The kid who begs for makeup and nail polish (black only, of course).  The kid who redecorated my upstairs with spray paint.  You're the kid who randomly asks people if they want to see his butt.  Your conversation is peppered with phrases like 'chocolate ding dong', 'boobies', 'teabagging' and 'sorry for party rocking, baby girl'.  You're hilarious without trying.  You're too cute for your own good.  You're a criminal mastermind.  Probably.  You're the boy who tells me "Mommy?  You're adorable!" when I tuck him in.  (Side note:  you're very free with the compliments "Mommy, you look like a fairy godmother!" And also quick to point out if I'm slipping "Mommy, where you makeup?  You don't look like a princess today.")

Oh, hell.  Now that I think about it, I'm ready for you to grow up.  But just a tiny bit, ok?