And Then There Were Two.

The story of the birth of my first baby made sense in a world inhabited by a uterus with something to prove. The story of the birth of my second makes sense in a world inhabited by a uterus who wants no one else inhabiting her.

Maybe I didn't appreciate her enough the first time. Maybe I attributed her skill set more to nature than nurture. Or maybe, she was in the Olympic spirit with her eyes set on nothing but gold. I can only speculate what drove her and offer a meager attempt to honor what she pulled off last week by telling this tale.

After a night of comfortably uncomfortable contractions and four weeks of false hope that labor was right around the corner, I spent my due date waiting. Nothing of note happened other than the UPS cashier markedly improving his speed-of-service when he guessed I was five months pregnant and I responded, "No. I'm due today."

The day after my due date, I loafed around. My little boy and I made up drive-thru errands to run and my husband stayed close. "It's not happening," I told him, "today doesn't feel like the day."

To my ute, those words were the secret password. Her eyes filled with dervish glee and she said, "Today doesn't feel like the day?? I believe I choose the day, not your feelings."

Luckily, my husband didn't believe my disbelief about the day and arrived home early from work. My little boy and I were baking brownies and staring at a sea of spilled Cheerios. The latter doesn't sound like a mommy-and-me activity, but it is because without the dog, he and I engage in at least six daily 'who is going to pick that food up off the floor' staredowns.

As a family of three, we watched Sesame Street and then whipped up a nutrient packed box of Kraft (Yes, Kraft; not Annie's) mac 'n cheese for dinner so my husband and I could say it was for our little boy but eat most of it ourselves.

My uterus watched and judged, of that I'm certain.

In the middle of this uneventful Wednesday night I used the loo and noticed I was either being eaten from the inside by slugs or had lost part of the mucus plug.

"How long until labor after the mp goes?" I asked Google and was disappointed the results page didn't say, "in the next five minutes."

"You want it in the next five minutes," my ute said with a tad too much insouciance for my taste, "I can do better than that."

"OWWWWW!" I screamed and hunched over.

"This is it!" my husband yelled through a mouthful of mac 'n cheese.

"Wait," I said, when the pain had passed not believing I was in labor although if I wasn't, I was surely dying of a tropical, and still undiscovered, gastro-intestinal disease, "these will be at least 15 minutes apart. We've got time."

"Don't think so," I heard my ute say in a matter-of-fact tone that mocked my own like I was being played back. I knew I was in big, BIG trouble.

TWO MINUTES later another one struck with double the intensity.

"Oh my God," I said, "call my cousin NOW to come get [son's name here]."

The old girl had skipped the warm-up round. She and I were in hard labor in the blink of an eye.

The next 30 minutes were straight from a scene out of a cliched movie which my little boy watched with a bemused expression as he ate his mac 'n cheese. I  tried not to yell while my husband tried to stay calm. We both failed miserably. My ute, however, was hugely successful in blasting me with a soul-crushing, earth-shattering, whimpering-inducing contraction every three minutes.

When my cousin arrived, we shoved our son out the door with his overnight bag and Tupperware case of brownies. Had the pain been a bit less searing, I may have teared up when I hugged him, thinking about all our twosome adventures and boring afternoons of the past 27 months, but all I could think about was an epidural.

The next hour and a half I recall in bits and pieces. That labor blackout trick that keeps the world populated has started taking hold and so I only recall a dark shroud of pain punctuated by a dozen memories.

I remember contractions in the car. I remember closing my eyes, gripping the seat and whimpering like a barnyard animal.

I remember my husband asking to place a final $100 bet on the baby's gender and me responding in a scary calm voice that would make one believe I had an ice-pick in pocket, "Please don't talk."

I remember riding up the elevator, saying, "Never, EVER again. Never."

I remember listening to a despairingly long list of "to-dos" that needed checking off before anyone would stick a giant needle filled with magical elixir and unicorn hair in my back.

I remember recalling the hospital tour guide's suggestion from a few months back to bring lavender or jasmine to ease the contractions and lucidly understanding that she was on acid when she shared this "helpful" tidbit.

I remember recalling the odd inflatable pool that was also mentioned on the aforementioned tour and quickly devising a plan to request it and drown myself if the epidural was not taken care of in the next 10 minutes.

I think I cried.

And then, the epidural woman came in; an elfin blonde with an Eastern European accent toting a shiny metal box filled with Cold War era torture devices. I told her I loved her. I meant it.

Post-epidural, just over two hours into labor, I was 8 centimeters dilated.

My uterus laughed out loud at the shocked look on my face and reminded me I'd be at 10 if she hadn't stopped at Starbucks for a Caramel Flan Latte. There had been one five minute space between contractions and it seems it occurred only because she was waiting on a barista.

I experienced 30 minutes of epidural bliss, which my husband and I used to align on a final name for a boy, and then felt pressure. I called the nurse, who called the doctor. It was go time.

As it had 27 months ago in a different hospital, in a different state, the room transformed into the Death Star and my ute was once again gasped at the probing lights that whipped down from the ceiling and stirrups that whipped up from the bed. I however, told her to get on with it. I appreciate her esteem for dignity, but she's got a job to do.

I pushed once.

The doctor said, "I can't hear the baby's heartbeat very well so I need you to push hard right now. We're not waiting for a contraction."

I did as told.

The doctor said, "Ok. I'm still having trouble hearing it, probably because the baby is under your pelvic bones. I'm going to cut you."

My ute gasped more loudly than when the stirrups appeared.

I on the other hand, wasn't sure what to think. Those are not the words one wants to hear when stirruped. In fact, I believe "I'm going to cut you" is a trendy phrase that is not usually followed by an actual cut in my circles. However, talk of heartbeats made me nervous and all I could muster was, "Uhh. Ok?"

The doctor asked the nurse for a vacuum and then asked me to push.

My ute, knowing it was too late to escape the knife but not the vacuum, used that third push to sweep my second baby out into the world.

"It's a boy!" my husband shouted, which I'd known all along without ever confirming.

I looked down for a second time at a bawling boy on my chest. "Brothers," I thought getting a little teary-eyed and immediately started forgetting the hell of the last 3.5 hours.

"Whoa!" I said after looking at the little guy a little closer, "he's BIG," and the doctor said, "yeah, he is big." The scale confirmed that I'd given birth to an 8-pound, 11-ounce baby.

In the distance I heard my uterus inhale loudly, preparing for a rant. I stopped her. "You're right. I had very little to do with this. It was ALL you." (Ok, so I had a little to do with it, but I need to hedge my bets. The chances are slim that I'll ever do this again, but nonetheless, I need her in my good graces.)

Last time, she chose a 12 hour, easygoing labor. Perhaps sensing I was a bit indifferent about her abilities, this time she brought a pain-riddled 3.5 hour labor. It bordered on a coup d'etat, so I will never doubt her again, and likely, never do this again.

Ute, this was another job well done. You grew (and grew and grew) another perfect baby boy and ejected him when you knew it was time. Now cash in your 401k and head for the islands. I will be here managing dirt and superheroes and blocks and huge appetites and little boy hugs. Thank you for the perfect workload.
                                                     

Some Guilt While I Wait.

Since I am 39+ weeks pregnant with no daily happenings worth writing about, except for the fact that I am $$^%^$#@ 39+ weeks pregnant, I thought I'd distract myself by getting out some guilt.

The dog is dead.

Ok, no. I'm not writing about "The Telltale Heart" kind of guilt, folks. While I did threaten to kill him many times, I didn't know how to cleanly dispose of a 110 pound hairy carcass so I couldn't do it.

He died of a heart fluke. My husband talked to the vet about fixing the problem, but he told him the prognosis was grim and it would certainly be back if he were to recover. We made the decision in a 12-second phone call.

This was in November and the past three months are best described as joy-filled and hair-free.

I don't miss him.

I don't miss vacuuming once a day.

I don't miss refereeing the snack fights that happened 5 times a day when my son walked by him with handfuls of Bunny Grahams and Cheerios.

I don't miss the destruction that took place when it thundered.

I don't miss the stares I got when he wanted to go for a walk and the loud "Harumph" directed my way when he realized it was not happening.

I don't miss the sticks, leaves, and mud.

I don't miss the pawprints everywhere.

I don't miss lifting heavy bags of dog food into the cart.

I don't miss feeling like Cinderella, pre-glass slipper, when I picked up dog poop.

I don't miss people saying, "What a good dog you have there!" and then laughing when I asked if they wanted him.

I don't miss noseprints on every window.

I don't miss living with a beast who would be in my weight class were we boxers.

I don't miss any of it and I feel guilty but elated. He's probably better off too, because, let's face it, post-partem I would have figured out how to get rid of a 110 pound hairy carcass.

Dear Cervix.

Dear Cervix,

Hey there! It's been awhile since we've had a fireside chat, but it's time to open up and put it all out there again.

I know your job is relatively thankless. That damn uterus sees all the action and the praise, but without your support, she'd be nothing. Just so you know, everyone knows that, but I know when you hear, "My cervix is doing nothing," you shake your fist and yell back, "except sealing your offspring safely inside!" And the frequent comment of Debbie-Downers everywhere, "Dilating has little to do with actually having a baby," makes you huff and mumble, "I dare you to try and get it out undilated, sweetie."

I'd want to punch everyone in the face, too!

So listen, last time around, I may have called you some not nice names when you started dilating. That was about me, not you! I didn't know what was around the corner and I wanted you to stay put for the next 10 years if possible.

This time, you're starting early and I love it! Doc told me you are already dilating and effacing at just over 36 weeks.  Let's keep going. You are the girl at prom showing too much skin precisly because she's promiscuous, NOT the prom queen in a pink taffeta dress that's stapled shut. Got it? No false hope.

No, no, this has nothing to do with my sheer discomfort and desire to no longer be pregnant, this is about your prestige. It only takes a few centimeters to show the "honorable" ute that while she may do some heavy organizational lifting, when you say it's go time, she has no choice but to listen.

Think it through, keep doing your thing, and we'll talk soon.

Sincerely,
Annie

I Hate Pregnancy.

I hate pregnancy.

Whoa, whoa, whoa SETTLE DOWN.

When you finally own your beach house, do you rejoice in the flood insurance? Or when you get to that job with the big bonus do you exclaim, "I am so excited to pay even more in taxes!!"

No, you don't. You take the good with the bad and while the good is being pregnant the very, very bad is pregnancy. And while most 8+ months pregnant women get to this point and have the same list of trite complaints, please indulge mine.

Last time around, not realizing I would never again have time to eat more than string cheese, I stressed about weight gain and made it to the gym 4-5 times a week. This time, I hate all shoes with laces so much that I rarely work out more than twice a week. Those little blue bastards in my new running shoes look at me from the corner of my closet and raspily cry out like the big-eyed blobs growing from Ursula's lair, "Ohhhhhhh, can you not bend and force your foot in us? How will you tie us? How will you even get back up once you're down at our level?"

While we're on shoes, I also hate all my heels. They have forsaken me. Last time around I rocked them until Week 39. This time around, we're not on speaking terms. They make my ankles look like loaves of salami and I cannot have a relationship that makes any part of my body look like cured meat.

I hate renegade puzzle pieces, magnetic animals, and pumpkin and goat when they go missing because these items are invariably UNDER something. Last time around I had no reason to get down on all fours and crawl under couches at any point in life, let alone at 8 months pregnant. This time, I have a two-year-old whose cries of, "Get it Mommy! Get it! It's right dair!" are only slight more painful and persistent than the aches an 8-months pregnant woman feels rolling around the floor grasping for a goat in the dark.

I am very disappointed in how quickly my body gave up the good fight. This baby feels as low as my son did right before his head popped out of my crotch and my doctor told me I pulled some kind of ab muscle picking up that same son a few weeks ago. Ummm, abs...where are you? For the same bunch who used to run and run and run with me and go to early-ass morning bootcamp, you phoned it in pretty fast.

And lastly, I hate my hate. Pregnancy, you've made me one of "those" women and for that we will never be close. I don't want to groan everytime I move, get stuck on the floor, or look forward to a pre-natal massage for days. I don't want to sit on a couch and stare at a blank TV because I'm contemplating the tuck and roll maneuver required to get up. I don't want to stop caring how I look because the act of getting dressed tears muscles.

I've had it with pregnancy. Being pregnant, is fine. I'm happy to be and happy there will be a sibling in our lives very, VERY soon. However, if after reading a cheeseball facebook post shared by all my friends who (accidentally) have three children about how awesome/unique/loveable the third child is I say out loud, "I think we should have another!" I've asked my husband to punch me in the face or waterboard me until my senses return or I am beyond a child-bearing age.

The 24 Month Ages and Stages Questionnaire.

Last week my son turned two which meant I found myself staring down 30 absurd questions in the pediatrician's waiting room while my son screamed, in a friendly manner, at the fish tank.

18 Month Ages & Stages Questionnaire, you were ridiculous.

24 Month ASQ, you're not off the hook, either.

As I did with your sister survey, I'd like to provide more detail than your fill-in-the-blank responses allow and offer amicable suggestions for your questions, where applicable.

Your instructions suggest the parent try the activities when [the] child is cooperative.
You want this done before said child reaches age 3, yes? Then perhaps there should be only one question that asks, "Is your child currently yelling at a saltwater fish tank in a friendly tone?" Otherwise, forego the helpful tip.

You ask Does your child turn the pages of a book by herself?
This is a waste of ink as there is no other option for a 24 month old. Don't believe me? Try telling your toddler that, as we learned on the previous page, Brown Bear espies a red $^%& bird, not a white dog and then try to flip back the pages his quick, but inaccurate fingers, skipped over. Toddler rage leaves a mark, especially when board books are in play.

You ask Does your child use a turning motion with his hand to turn doorknobs?
Oh come on! Is this like the 200 points given for putting a name on the SAT? Either throw this one back in the 18 month survey or stop asking it like every damn door in the house doesn't have one of those round balls on it to keep the resident 24 month-old from escaping time-out or heading to the
park on his own. The snide reminder that we currently run an insane asylum is not appreciated.

You ask Can your child string small items such as beads, macaroni, or pasta "wagon wheels" onto a string or shoelace?
Am I a $%&# camp counselor or a parent? Should we start whittling an Adirondack chair using 10 logs and a Play-doh knife for the three year questionnaire? Next question.

You ask for a second time if my child can turn a bottle upside down and drop out the Cheerio I place in it.
Here's the thing, ASQ. If I couldn't answer this back at 18 months, there is no earthly way I can at 24. Cheerios go immediately in his little Elmo bowl or in his little mouth. You're asking me to take a bottle over the head when you ask me to place the Cheerio there. I'm no lawyer, but Moms Who Have Been Hit With Bottles v. The ASQ is in your future if you don't remove this gem.

You ask Does your child eat with a fork?
This is a great question! However, to get what you need, you might define eat. Does it include pounding the fork on the table, tossing the fork on the floor, and using the fork to deposit food in one's hair? Just sayin'. If you want accurate results your query must be specific and based on the wild popularity of squeezable applesauce, I'd infer your results on this question are not statistically accurate.

The Pumpkin And The Goat.

Once upon a time there lived a pumpkin and a goat.

The pumpkin found his way into a certain toddler's life amidst the contents of a birthday party goodie bag. This particular pumpkin's purpose was to bring joy to small children with bubbles but the small child who owned him never figured out that the stalk was a bubble blower or that bubble stuff sloshed within the hollow insides and so his parents, quite gladly, never shared the secret.

The goat had been living in a toy barnyard for some time but was rediscovered by the toddler with the glee usually reserved for old fruit snacks found smushed into the rug.

Neither the pumpkin nor the goat cleared three inches, but their power was mighty.

"Mommy, mommy! See my punkin and goat!" the little boy would scream at odd moments during the day and proudly display one in each hand.

"Punkin and goat, punkin and goat," the little boy would chant while walking in circles and swinging them in his little hands.

When going up the stairs, a feat that required his little hands to be free of any objects, pumpkin and goat included, he would say, "Mommy, hold my punkin and goat pease."

Most of the time, the little boy's mom did not know where the pumpkin and goat resided. Sometimes they'd show up in the play kitchen or under the table, but whenever they couldn't be found all the mom had to say was, "Pumpkin and goat?" and the boy could produce them in front of their eyes, an invisible tether binding them for eternity.

Of course, since the tether was invisible and pumpkins are not known to stick around much past October, a very bad thing happened. The pumpkin disappeared and the goat sat by his lonesome on a kitchen shelf that should have been out of the little boy's view.

For days he questioned their whereabout and for days his mom did a pretty kick-ass job of diverting his attention using a patented combination of lies and fruit snacks. And then one day he spotted the $#^@ goat on the shelf.

"MY GOAT!!!" he shouted, "Mommy, there's my goat!"

Mommy cringed and waited. He did not disappoint.

"Where's my punkin?" she heard laced with the same passion invoked when requesting a cookie.

The good, exhausted, creative mommy did her best but the toddler saw through the lies. He knew pumpkins don't need "me-time," he couldn't believe the goat would decide to achieve his dream of scaling Mt. Kilimanjaro if it meant saying goodbye to the pumpkin, and while he didn't quite understand the concept of hibernation he was fairly confident it didn't apply to pumpkins.

Desperation set in. This Mommy was no dummy. Pumpkin bubble blower inventory is halfway to China by November 1st!

And then she heard it. Sweet joy of joys. The little boy screamed, "MY PUNKIN!!" Hidden away in a compartment of the diaper bag she didn't know existed was the pumpkin. There were also some pretty disgusting peanut butter crackers and an old banana stem, but the little boy was so glad to have the pumpkin back, he didn't try to eat either.

Mommy, the little boy had, the pumpkin, and the goat had a sweet reunion and texted many pictures to Daddy who was on a work trip in Chicago enjoying dinner at (and this is true, couldn't make it up if I wanted to) The Girl and The Goat not quite, and likely not ever, appreciating the irony of his own girl and goat back home.

The Most Ridiculous Hospital Tour In The World, EVER.

Let's talk about my hospital tour. Normally, I would have dismissed the hospital tour but everytime I asked a healthcare provider or hospital information kiosk worker, "So where do I go when I'm actually in labor?" I was told, "Oh just take the tour. It's great!" Despite my persistence, no one would give up a wing or a floor, so to the tour I went.

I attended the tour alone and on the drive over I felt like a woman freed from her household bonds. My husband was with our son and neither one of them had any idea how long a hospital tour might take. All day? Possible.

Upon arrival, I noticed I was the only one there without a "partner" and upon introductions that I was the only one in the bunch to have already experienced the thrill of labor and delivery. Within five minutes of the tour's start, I knew what to do when in labor. I should have left. I had what I wanted, but freedom felt good and Kerry, our hippie nurse/yoga instructor at the healm of the ship seemed like she might take offense to someone walking off so early.

In the delivery room, I listened to her talk about check-in and checked things off my "Delivery Room Expectations list." Laminate wood floors? Check! Giant TV? Check! Uncomfortable couch for dad? Check! Massive crotch spotlight hiding in the ceiling? Check! It was all there.

My train of thought was interrupted when I heard Kerry say, "A lot of our moms say aromatherapy really helps getting through those contractions, so consider bringing essential oils or lavendar."

I looked around incredulously the nodding heads of the innocent moms who had never felt a contraction. I wanted to scream, "Lavendar?! You've GOT to be kidding. Don't listen to this because the poor soul who comes near you with lavendar mid-contraction is getting it shoved up his ass. Wildflowers are only good if they are a magical elixir in the epidural."

I stayed quiet.

Next on Kerry's list of ridiculous things you might want was a giant inflatable pool. She told us that we should request it early because it takes some time to inflate and fill it, but then we could hop right in to help ease the contractions. Oh! And tell your partner to bring his swimtrunks because he can get in, too.

Are we in labor or on a toddler play date with an unsanitary pool? I do not want to sit in placenta-water and my husband doesn't either.

Still, I stayed quiet.

It was the third ridiculous fact about this hospital that gave me my voice. "We recommend that the baby stay with you every night you are in the hospital so you really get that special bonding time with your infant." Kerry droned on about this as my eyes filled up. I want to bond with this baby and we have a lifetime to get 'er done, but as far as I'm concerned, those two nights in the hospital are my last two nights of sleep for about three months.

"But if you want the baby to go to the nursery, it can, right?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"Oh sure," Kerry responded. Relief flooded my veins, "But," she continued, "studies show new moms sleep more soundly when in the same room as their babies."

"Oh, really, Kerry?" I wanted to shout but didn't have the balls, "studies show I sleep more soundly when I'm not woken up three times a night!"

Instead of saying this I glared at her.

The fourth and final ridiculous fact about this hospital is that according to Kerry they do not "believe in pacificiers." What is not believable about a pacifier? They exist and they work. Were Kant alive, he could riff off a textbook on the existence of pacifiers. Apparently, this hosptial believes in crying babies so I will be bringing a gross of pacifiers in my overnight bag.

When done with ridiculous facts, one ridiculous question came from tour group. "Does this hospital offer room upgrades?" a woman asked.

Umm, are you J. Lo or Kim Kardashian? You've got laminate wood floors and an (optional) inflatable pool. What more do you want in suburban Texas? You are having a baby, not weekending poolside at The Ritz. Get over yourself.

Thank God the answer was no. I only wished Kerry hadn't said it with so much apology in her voice.

So I'm sure my hospital stay is going to be a riot with herbal remedy experts, nursery naysayers, and the pacifier police at my bed. I think I've either picked the wrong hospital or privileged consumerism is finding its way to healthcare.