Family of five

A Catholic woman I once worked for told me that the church's argument against birth control is that we do not get to decide how many children we have, whether we want ten or none at all, it is up to God. I am not Catholic and I cannot even identify with any one religion, but I do know that despite my support in a woman's right to choose and everyone's right to bear children, we cannot always decide how many, if any children we will have. The thousands (if not millions) of women out there struggling to have just one child can tell you that. I cannot relate to these women. All I have to do is catch a glimpse of a baby's feet and I instantly ovulate.
I have never had a planned pregnancy. I hope that didn't come out wrong. It sounds negative, but it isn't. Birth control has not failed me, in fact I failed birth control...three times. And I am likely to do it again. It is for this reason that I got a tubal ligation on Monday. I love my three darlings more than life itself, when I am without them for too long I feel as though I am missing my limbs. I would be unbearably miserable without them. But what if they never came into play? What if they were still only twinkles in my eye? It's possible I could have found a life full of happiness and fulfillment. But as of now, I have crossed over. I could never, would never go back. Once you become a mother, it becomes an indelible mark on your path in life; a map tattooed in your mind. All arrows point north and the terrain leaves scars on your belly. I don't believe that I was meant to have my kids. I do not follow the faith that fate lead them to me. I believe that I am simply very blessed to have them and that I should feel obliged never to take them for granted. I also believe that if I let the cards fall where they may, I will become overwhelmed and lose all my hair at the hand of twelve children. So, for reasons stated above, I am not Catholic. I support birth control, I praise fertility science. And above all, I thank the universe for my beautiful family. We are now complete.

The "other" kind of landscaping

**Disclaimer; not for the esily offended**
If you've ever attempted the "landing strip" when it's been months since you've seen the "runway", you know where this is going. I am what you might call, a Yeti Betty (intended to be said in the fashion of Austin Powers...yeah baby). I might even go so far as to call myself a Sascrotch. I have yet to meet a razor that didn't run away in horror upon seeing the task set before it. I am the reason plumbers are still in business. The drain snake has been my savior since I hit puberty. Have I said too much?

My point is that I am now 7 weeks postpartum and am finally able to be intimate with my husband again. This is BIG news! And yet I feel like a raggedy old sac of skin. So I thought I would spice things up a bit and get out the ol' shave gel and the new (of course) razor and have a go. All I can say is "Dayum!" Razor-burn is evil! Now, I know Nick accepts me for me and does not need any fancy tricks to be happy, but I just like the idea of feeling sexy. So...exactly how sexy is razor-burn? On a scale of one to ten, how sexy can one feel with red bumps along their bikini line (or in my case, granny panties line)?

I forgot about all the troubles that come back into play once my playground is in view again. It's almost a good enough reason to have another baby. It's a good thing I'm getting my tubes tied in just 10 days.

Which leads me down a whole new road of neurosis; surgery is, A) not fun, B) painful, and C) I'm not even getting bigger boobs in the process. But I am doing my due to society and keeping to my promise to only bring three perfect beings into this world so as not to make everyone else jealous. My perfect beings are asleep at the moment, so of course I want more of them because they look so...well, you know, perfect.

Where am I going with all this? I have no idea. I have a constant broken record in my head (in the voice of Austin Powers, of course); surgery, turning 35, pay the garbage bill, surgery, turning 35 and so on. Here's to neurosis!

We can sleep when we're dead...

Ugh! I lost almost this entire post trying to edit it. Ergh! So here is what I have recovered. The beginning goes on and on about how we should sleep when the baby sleeps but why would we do that when it's our only chance to feel 'normal' again? And then I remark about how nice it is to have the use of bothe my hands as well as my boobs tucked neatly into my bra. Yada yada yada, here is the rest:

Cherish these days. These are the days that go by so fast that before you know it, your little one is drawing on walls, pulling books off shelves and refusing to poop in the toilet despite their adept skills at cracking the locks on the liquor cabinet. This is when a parent can put their little one in a bouncy seat and go take a dump with the confidence that when they return from the bathroom, their child will be in the same place they left them. Having a newborn is merely boot camp, it just gets us ready for what lies ahead; play-doh in the carpet, bubble gum in their hair and glue on your toothbrush. And that only gets you ready for the next set of phases, all leading up to "Mom, Dad, can I have the car keys?".

Lactation Hell

Somewhere in the depths of Dante's Inferno there is a circle tucked away reserved for the mothers who foolishly think that this time breastfeeding will be different, this time it will be easier. How do you know you are in Lactation Hell? The first clue is when you ask yourself what would be more painful, letting your breasts dry up, or allow your lip-smacking baby another go on your chapped and bleeding nipples. My milk arrived roughly 24 hours ago and Jack took his sweet time taking advantage of the surplus, resulting in an overflow and a need to pump, which again leads to an even bigger surplus and the cycle continues.

It was 3 AM when he woke up, making the adorable fussy sound of a hungry baby. I was lazy and didn't want to sit up and work on a good latch. Instead I pulled him close to me in the bed and let him root around until he found me and then he moved in for the kill. Half asleep I jolted at the pain and tried in vain to get him to let go. I tried the finger sweep. No luck. I tried to startle him. Again, he would not let go. He was on me like a toothless pit bull, he showed no mercy in his pursuit to gum me into submission. It wasn't until I pulled myself free from his grasp that I was able to breathe. I scooped him up, changed him and sat down with him in a chair and gave him his fill for the night (yeah right, it will last him about an hour). At this point, there was no avoiding the pain. But he is asleep now and I am nearly there. Another night of tender boobs almost over and another day of engorgement soon to begin.

I learned my lesson; do not attempt to feed a baby while sleeping until you know for certain that the latch will be progressive.

Eviction notice!

Jack has been given his one week pay or vacate notice. I have been renting my body to him for free for 41 weeks now. Unless he can convince me to take a bribe, he is coming out on the 21st via induction. It pains me to think if it; EFM, Hep lock, laboring in a bed, on my back. No bath. No shower. Please babe, put down the book and head for the nearest exit, I swear this building should be CONDEMNED! It's old and rickety and I don't care what the midwife says, I need you to get out so I can board it up for good.

green and the other green

I feel as though my life has been consumed by the various colors of green. Apparently I am in love with it. I gathered all the green items I could find to try to come up with the color for the walls and the trim in the nursery and discovered it is no coincidence that the very color I am searching for is all over my house. I always thought my favorite color was red. It turns out I am not as cool as I once thought I was. Red is bold and brash, green is thoughtful and aware. Who knew?

On a side note, I must add that it is odd that I am even remotely interested in having a nursery at all. If you ask me, they are not for babies, but for self-indulgent mommies who are under the impression that they are about to give birth to a shallow human rife
with disdain for bare walls. Like this little guy in here cares about hue
and contrast. I doubt he'll notice that the rug clashes a bit with the trim and despite the fact that he is the son of an opera singer, I'm sure he won't care if he has drawers designated for certain items. So why am I doing this? I call it "Last baby syndrome". It is a right of passage as well as an insurance policy that I may not screw this one up and I can be sure not to end my days in a retirement home. After all, if I can pull a nursery out of my ass, I can surely atone for all the mistakes I made with the first two.

Where is my ass?

How is it that I have gained nearly 40 pounds, passed 200 on the scale and yet still wearing my size 6 pre-pregnancy underwear? I have cankles and my face is in competition with my chin to catch up with my neck! Ladies, I don't want to hear how you are jealous of my predicament, having a pea for an ass is neither sexy nor comfortable to rest upon. The fact is, when your belly is the size of a basketball and your boobs rest on said belly like they were made for the Michelin Man, this Weeble wobbles and she DOES fall down! And so do her pants!