Tuesday, October 27, 2009


Pin It I haven't been slacking and holding out on you, I've just been gestating for a very, very long time.

In fact, I'm getting ready to live-blog the birth any second now!


Alright, FINE.

I am not still pregnant.

I am actually de-pregnant. I have been de-pregnatized.


(I have also been heavily Photoshopped. In real life I do not actually glow, and I have an additional chin.)

(Or two.)

The baby made his appearance on 09-09-09 - NOT on the 14th as I'd been promised.

Since I was not quite finished with my maternity leave preparations I was quite put out.

(I highly intend to write a strongly worded letter.)

At about 2:00 in the morning on the 9th I woke up out of a dead sleep. Usually when I wake up from a dead sleep it's either due to a) imaginary spider bites, or b) imaginary noises in the house, but on this occasion it was imaginary contractions. At least I was fairly sure they were probably imaginary. I mean - on the one hand there was freakishly painful pain every seven minutes or so. On the other hand - blood clot.

My husband was groggily convinced that I was just being dramatic. This is probably why he went along with me, when after about an hour-and-a-half, still feeling certain this would all be a false alarm, I decided to drive myself to the hospital. I told him that I would call him if it turned out to be real labor, which I doubted it was, because a) it's me we're talking about here, and b) I was giving birth on the 14th, and it wasn't the 14th yet, dammit.

At 4:00 AM I arrived at the hospital. At 4:30AM the nurses established that I was having actual, non-imaginary contractions. At 4:45 they finally believed my "story" (about labor = danger/exploding uterus) and called my doctor, who flipped out and scheduled a 6AM c-section.

I called my husband, feeling slightly hysterical. “Come down here now! They’re operating in an hour. AN HOUR! Call Karen, she’ll watch the kids until my mom can get there!”

He told me not to worry – he would be there in twenty minutes – twenty-five tops. I wept, feeling sure my husband was going to miss the birth of his fourth child. THE TRAGEDY.

Of course, then I pictured my immaculate neighbor seeing the condition of our kitchen floor and called my husband back. “Wait! Don’t call Karen! Do the dishes first, then call Karen. And sweep the floor under the table. And wipe off the table. Do that and THEN call Karen.” I figured if he missed the first part of the operation, no big deal. After all, you’ve seen one c-section, you’ve seen ‘em all. Small price to pay.

I texted him seven times with various instructions – all related to making sure he cleaned the house before calling Karen. I was texting him about wiping down the outside of the fridge when he walked in the door. He swears he “picked up a little” before Karen got there. (I am sure he is lying.)

Our baby boy was born at 6:07 AM on 9-9-09.

Internet, I give you...


Fernando likes to NURSE. He likes to nurse, and nurse, and nurse. Also? He likes to nurse. His sole mission in life is to chew off my left nipple. I feel like my brain juices have all melted and been sucked right out of my milk ducts. (That spot on the front of my t-shirt? That's not breastmilk, it's what was left of my frontal lobe.)

(Man, I hate breastfeeding. The La Leche League folks can suck on it.)

("It" meaning - something that is not my nipple. That's already being utilized.)

(I wonder how many times I can say nipple in this post? Nipple, nipple, NIPPLE.)

(Am I making you uncomfortable?)

(Let's talk about something else, shall we?)

In honor of having the baby, I am having a GIVEAWAY! I am giving away:

A Fussy Six Week Old Who Is
Suffering from Reflux and a Double Ear Infection!

(To enter this giveaway, simply leave a comment letting me know how soon you could get here.) (I'm really tired.)




O.k., FINE.

I am not giving him away. I would never in a million BILLION years give him away.


I'd SELL him.


OK, FINE, I won't sell him either. The children would revolt. They sort of like him. He has them under his vampire mind control, obviously. See that satisfied little smile? That's the smile of a baby vampire who is plotting to destroy his evil human overlords.

I am trying very hard to recapture normal - to get back into some semblance of a routine. But this baby does not recognize routine, he spits upon our routine, he POOPS upon our routine. Routines are for mortals, not breastmilk vampires, he says.

He is a very sweet, dear baby when he is not feeling horrible. He's had a really rough start here on planet earth. He celebrated his two week old anniversary by coming down with a cold, double ear infection, and a nasty case of reflux. He's been in so much pain - for weeks, if he was awake, he was crying. His little baby voice is hoarse from stomach acid washing up and down his throat. (Ever heard a newborn with laryngitis? It's the most pathetic sound in the world.)

When he isn't in pain, he is an above average baby in every way - sweet and round and adorable and wonderful and ours. And of course, he is our last baby, so everything he does has special significance - sure, we are up walking the floor with him, but we are doing it for the Last Time, with our Last Baby Ever. Somehow that makes it all a little easier. It's amazing how much love you can feel for someone you've known so briefly.

He has the same medical issues his sister just had surgery for (the condition runs in sibling groups) and has a test scheduled for next week at Primary Children's Hospital. We're hoping to hear his condition is less severe than his sister's, and that he'll grow out of it with no surgery necessary. We'd appreciate your thoughts and if you are so inclined, your prayers. My little one could use a very large break.

I was hoping for a more clever ending for this post, but alas, the baby is crying so I must sign off.

(Somehow that seems fitting.)

Off I go.

PS: Please ignore that creaking noise you may hear as you read this post. My blogging chops are a bit rusty.