The really early miscarriage.

A few weeks ago Daniel and I had the BEST news and we were quick to share it with our friends and loved ones. Some would say too quick.

I was brought up with the old adage, 'Don't count your chickens before they hatch!' and never was there a more fitting situation..

But why not? Aren't we always talking about the power of positivity? What is the point in preparing for the worst all the time? Focus on the good I say. That will generate even more good. It didn't in this case though.

And it was just bad luck.

Actually no - scratch that! I don't think it was just bad luck. I think what happened was what was supposed to happen. Daniel held my hand tightly on the morning while the miscarriage was happening. His disappointment was too strong to mask. But it wasn't directed at me. To me he said something quite sickeningly beautiful and perfect, like,

"Baby, I trust in you and your body implicitly and if this is happening to us, then your body knows something we don't."

My own disappointment in myself was pretty unbearable at the time. I totally blamed myself then, and ~ let's face it ~ I still do a bit now. And, well, shit... I didn't WANT to hear anything logical or reasonable. I may have been laying dry-eyed, silent and motionless, with my thighs squeezed tightly together, desperately hoping gravity could circumvent the miscarriage, but on the inside I was jumping up and down screaming "GIVE ME MY BABY BACK!!!"

Because to me he already was my baby. And he already had a name. And I had already figured out the sleeping arrangements, and I knew exactly how many years beneath his big sister and brothers in school he would be. He wasn't a fetus or a cluster of cells dividing. He was my fourth.

And I had FELT him growing inside of me for two weeks.

Time is an incomprehensible thing. So much can happen and so much can change in the blink of an eye. Our time on this Earth is fleeting - whether we live to be 2 or 102 ~ and in the whole scheme of things, that baby DID had a lifespan, albeit a really really short one.

But let's get real here....

>>>>If I hadn't taken a test I might have had a delayed period and might never have known.

>>>>This happens to at least 1 in 5 women out there....

>>>>There's every chance this was a chemical pregnancy ~ or a phantom pregnancy ~ and there might NEVER have been a baby there in the first place.

All meaning WHAT exactly?

Am I not allowed to grieve?
Does any of  that make this sadness less real?

I think that if I'm honest with myself there's a big part of me that believes I am not even entitled to be disappointed. I look at my three little wonders of the world and I am so eternally grateful for them.

And there's this nagging voice inside my head... How can you ask for more? HOW. DARE. YOU.? 

'This is what you get for being greedy.........'

I know better than to listen, I do. But it still hurts though.

Pregnant since 2008

Well, it's New Year's Eve. The Earth has made yet another full turn around the sun, and incredibly the hubs and I made it round that entire time without being pregnant ~ not even the once. That's the first time since 2008.

2008: Preggo with Sawyer.

2009: Preggo with Sawyer.

2010: Preggo with Lennox.

2011: Preggo with Lennox then Dagny.

2012: Preggo with Dagny.

2013: NOT PREGNANT!!!!!!! 

When I see my pregnancies written down like that it looks crazy!! 

WE look crazy! 

I know what you're thinking...... I'm a little premature with this blog, right? It isn't over 'til the fat lady sings. There are still 9 hours left of 2013. Plenty of time to be 'making-the-babies'... I could be the proverbial fat lady singing before midnight!

Oh. You weren't thinking that??? (silly Josie). That's just plain cuckoo, right? How about we celebrate our non-pregnant state with a 'knees-up' of a different sort? 

"Open the wine, Dan! Let's get this party started!"

Here's to a fun-filled evening with lots of fireworks! Happy New Year folks!

stupid is as stupid does....

Really?? Is this ex-Petroleum Engineer (and physics major) actually admitting to typing the question, Why do we feel lighter in water? into the Google search engine?

Momma floating at 9 months pregnant!

Top answer: Water is denser than air.

Well, duh!  (apparently Momma is getting as thick as two short planks!) 

Of course I already knew the answer.... Ah-hem. Well, once upon a time, I did....! 

Anyway, the question I was actually driving at was,

How come preggo Momma floats more easily (than not preggo Momma) when I'm 40lbs heavier, huh?

I didn't Google this. This next bit of science is ALL me.

It's simple, (really). In spite of all evidence to the contrary (i.e. fatter and stupider), my density while pregnant is less. With a tummy full mainly of water - and a vast increase in body fat - even though my mass and volume both increased, my volume went up MORE, so my d=m/v went down!

Booyah! See, I told you - piece of cake.

Crimson Tide!

I can't believe I'm only 6 weeks post natal, TWO weeks post lochia, and Aunt Flo is already back in town!

They weren't kidding when they said every pregnancy was different! For each little manny I was given a much longer 'rag' respite. I think it was around the fifth/sixth month post natal - about the time the kids branched out from the breast and started scoffing cereal - when my period reared its ugly head.

One of the perks of breastfeeding is supposed to be an extended break from the blob, isn't it?

What The (BLOODY) Hell is Lochia?

No, I'm not talking about the hot 'Heather' uber-babe that made Wayne and Garth shaaaa-wing! Nor that khaki wearing not-paralyzed, paralyzed Lost survivor.

Heather Locklear

John Locke

And it's nothing to do with changing water heights in a canal, home security, - or even a Scottish 'lake' where Nessie the monster might live!

Three years ago, I'd never even heard of the word 'lochia'. Now, I'm over familiar with its skanky significance!

Just to give you a hint........

Happy Barrf Day!

So, I pulled this little story out of Momma's prenatal backblog.

I had it sitting pretty in my blog queue ready for 'go' when our little lady decided to join the party!

This isn't one of my proudest parenting moments - in fact, it's probably my cringiest 'please-let-the-ground-open-up-and-swallow-me-whole' Mommy moment to date!

Just a simple case of karma biting Momma in the butt - and really, this Momma should have known better..!

But Mommies mess up sometimes too, you know?

We can't always get it right. And, in my pitiful defense, it was more a bad case of denial (and hoping for the best) than unscrupulous intent that led me to let loose our feverish 'sick' kid at a wee buddy's Pirate Birthday Parrty last month, carelessly exposing the other pint-sized pirates to God knows whatever!

It's amazing how wishful thinking has the power to blindside us Mommas from doing the right thing by our kiddoes - and incidentally by other Mommas and their own precious offspring! 

All excuses aside, this wayward Momma definitely got her just desserts following a naughty bout of sick kid cover-up!

Our Saturdays have been jam-packed this summer, what with dance class first thing followed by swimming and lunch at the pool. By the time the morning's activities are wrapped up, both our little ones have been passing out cold for a good two (sometimes three) hour stretch - scuppering any hopes of a seven o'clock bedtime! 

You'd think that would be enough excitement for one day; Mommy and Daddy get to sneak in a lovely afternoon 'snuggle' then a magical bit of down time (remember this was pre-bambina - these 'snuggles' are a thing of the past) before it's already time for tea, doggy walks, bath, books and bed (hopefully before 10:00pm!). 

Who's crazy idea was it then - this particular Saturday - to haul ass across town and squeeze in the back end of a birthday party? Mommy's, of course. Daddy would have been happier hanging in his hammock - and the boys would have been none the wiser.  

I'm always guilty of cramming too much fun into a single day - I just don't like to say 'no' to anything, especially birthday parties. This social butterfly whore (as one Mommy friend fondly dubbed me) hates to miss out! 

Having too many options on the table is a good problem to have, but rather than attempting to 'do it all' I need to learn how to pick and choose. It's just not necessary (or even healthy) to have back to back activities for the kiddoes - necessary for Momma's sanity maybe! 

In all fairness to Momma, there was nothing to say we couldn't 'do it all'. On a different day, everything might have worked out swimmingly and the pirate party would have been the icing on the cake of a fun-packed summer's day..... 

Just not this day.

The kids ended up napping for almost three hours, and so by the time they were stirring in their beds the pirate theme party was already in full swing. 

Not wanting to rock up unfashionably late, we barely had time for potty breaks (big guy) and diaper change (little guy) before strapping both nippers in the minivan with a prepped sarny in one hand, sippy cup in the other.    

Our almost 3 year old had felt a tad bit on the warm side when I'd taken him out of his nest, but having been snuggled up for three hours in a duvet burrito after getting full body sun-kissed during his all morning swim, I chose to think nothing more of it. 

During the drive he announced to everybody, "Me sick!" He was fussy, and grumpy, and in protest to his sandwich or waking up or some other grievance (possibly the fact he was feeling sick to his tummy had a lot to do with it) he launched his much-needed post-nap snack at the back of Mommy's head-rest.   

Like his Daddy, our big kid is not a great waker-upper - often taking himself back to bed a handful of times before he's finally willing to join the land of the living. I've discovered, the hard way, that he's best left to his own devices when he's slumber sulking. 

"Probably just a headache," I dismissively diagnosed assuredly to Daddy, who gratefully concurred. We mainly put his sourpuss pouting down to post nap blues, telling ourselves that he was also likely affected by a bit too much sun and swim. 

He'd slept particularly hard after all that water play, so waking up was even more difficult than usual. To make matters worse, he'd barely touched his lunch before passing out, and he hadn't had a drop of water since the pool. 

I watched him through the mirror, quietly confident that with a few sips on his water cup and a few nibbles on his sarny he'd be right as rain. Silly misguided Momma!

By the time we pulled up at the party house and all piled out of the van, our eldest was still out of sorts. He clung to me like a little monkey and whimpered, "Me sick Momma!"

I dug around in the diaper bag pocket for a thermometer - just to check - and, of course, he was running a low-grade fever.

I looked at Daddy and we mused that it wasn't impossible he was just overheated after his sun exposure that morning. 

"Some party food and a cup cake will cheer him up!" What was I thinking? We should have turned around then and gone home - but we didn't. 

Shoulda woulda coulda.... hindsight is twenty twenty!

Instead, we dosed him up with some Tylenol - for his headache, right - and carried him into the celebrations. 

Who were we kidding? No one but ourselves it turned out. And, our little lad was not going to go along with our dastardly cover-up. 

"Me sick!" he embarrassingly announced to anyone and everyone that would listen, as I carried him around in my arms.

"Shhhh! You're just hot baby!" We kept correcting him, each time he let the cat out of the bag. Part of me still believed he'd nibble on some party food and pick right up, but when he refused the 'Pirate Booty' cheese puffs I knew we were in trouble.

Our hostess with the mostess had put such effort into everything, and I wanted so badly for our kids to repeat the fabulous party experience they'd had the last time we were over there. Infecting her kiddies was probably not the best way to say 'thank you' though.

Big kid ramped up his relentless rendition of "Me sick!" so guiltily I snook him outside with a popscicle in hand considering it might be time to bail.

That's when the inevitable happened. Our sick kid gave a few warning gags over my shoulder..

Uh oh.. don't do it.. don't do .... 

But it was too late. He'd already puked up his 'empty' little guts all down Momma's back and onto the ground behind me. At least we were outside - thank God for small mercies!

Mortified by what had just happened, my panic-stricken eyes roved around the party goers confirming who'd witnessed the embarrassing event....

Yep - pretty much everyone.

I couldn't hightail it outta there fast enough! One sympathetic family member of the birthday pirate insisted on helping carry our bags - much to my dismay - as I scurried my barfing boy away from all the concerned faces and out to the minivan, tail between my legs. 

I really didn't want any help; I didn't want anyone hanging around to see more of my child's chundering and my subsequent shame.

Please leave me to my humiliation! 

I stumbled across this little gem on my search
for an 'appropriate' visual aid: Puke the Pirate

I was appalled with myself that I hadn't listened to my boy - or taken any stock in what he'd been trying to tell me over and over - and considering our littlest had run a hellaciously high fever the weekend before, we really should have been more responsible.

The awful truth was: Momma had been looking forward to the party herself - and not just on the kids' behalf. Selfish Mommy had wanted to go play with her friends too!

On the drive home, Daddy and I squirmed and cringed and laughed until we cried at the whole pirate party puke fiasco! 

Once we were home, our sick kid laid up on the couch watching TV and snuggling in his duvet - pretty standard perks of being poorly in our house - but by bedtime he was more or less back to his chillaxed and happy self. 

"Me not sick anymore!"

Well OK little man - I definitely believe you.

Admittedly, I slept with one eye open that night for fear my kid had spent too much time underwater. What if his puking had been a precursor symptom of that rare and terrifying tragedy, dry drowning?

The next day he was right as rain.

A few days post pirate parrrty pandemonium though, and our kid was back to feeling feverish. Until then, we'd still been thinking too much sun and not enough fluids had been the culprit to his throwing up at the party. 

"Me ear hurt!" he announced pointing at his ear, while munching on his mac 'n' cheese. The little lad didn't have to tell me twice..... at least this time. I quickly abandoned our play date at the park plans and started garlic oil treatment pronto.  

With all the viruses being bandied around it's possible his little system had been fighting some blasted bug or other at the party - which was subsequently manifesting itself in an ear infection. Either that or our little underwater fish was just suffering from another bout of swimmers' ear!

Either way, Momma should have listened, and Momma should not have taken him to a party!

I consider with much chagrin how insistent we've been in the past about steering clear of other kids with bugs. It was considered the height of bad manners - especially by Daddy - when some 'ceder' fevering friend or family member showed up sneezing and coughing over the babies - particularly the newborns!

No one ever had the gall to rock up and let their sick kid vomit all over the place!

Boy do I feel sheepish. Bloated whale status aside - I'm lucky no one made me walk the plank! 

This is it!

Apparently our little girl has all the patience in the world, until it runs out - which it finally did on Monday night at precisely 7:26pm.

After another disappointing day of Braxton-Hicks or early labour... or something, it was all looking like just another false-start....

She'd woken me up atrociously early that morning - at 3:30am - same drill as the week before (see What a load of BH!). 

This time it felt more real though. I know, I said it felt real the last time too. But this time it really did.

By 5:00am I'd gotten confident enough in the credibility of my contractions to wake Daddy. Of course he got straight down to the business of counting cramps. He pulled up the app on his Ipod and left me in charge of clicking while he started prepping bags... just in case.

The pain wasn't debilitating - just really frequent and uncomfortable - so I set to work sticking girly girl decals onto baby girl's bedroom wall.

....all very last minute, I know.

I hadn't planned on doing anything too girly with the house - hell, our girl wasn't even getting her own room - until last week. Much like her Momma she'd be 'happy' bunking in with the boys!

With two big bros, we'd be rearing a tractor riding, train driving tomboy for sure - what would she need a pinkified princess parlour for?

What poppycock!

I don't know where my down-playing nay-saying side comes from. We don't need to make a fuss...? Silly Momma. There's no hiding from the big fat fuss we're all going to be making of this precious girly!

Danni Minogue's This time I know it's the real thing was playing on repeat in my head - and I couldn't help singing and dancing to the beat, all the while obediently tapping Daddy's app every two and a half minutes.....

But by the time the boys awoke a little before 8:00am - over 4 hours after 'first pain' - nothing had progressed.

Damn it! I'd been so sure again. So much for Momma's intuition! I was supposed to be snuggling a newborn by then!

My measly contractions were still super close and very regular, but totally bearable. No pain - no gain! Nothing had changed. 

I stopped singing.

De ja vu reared its ugly head and I called off the dogs - well at least Daddy (aka the contraction warden).

I soon discovered I had it in my power to stop and start these confusing contractions. If I sat down they slowed to a ten minute frequency with less force than a fart! If I walked they continued in the same vein as they had been all morning.

So I walked and walked for hours - up and down in the cabin - until I could walk no more.

I headed to the bathroom for a 'pee' stop and some pinkish gloop caught my eye... Ta Da! So that's what a mucus plug looks like?

Perhaps we did have lift off - sort of.

My aching bod cried out for relief, so I sunk into the bath - nature's epidural don't they say? It definitely slow timed my waning waves of pain even further - and it helped sooth my legs after all that waste-of-time walking. 

It's tricky to describe my comfort level after my bath. It felt like the pause button had been tapped mid-mild contraction. 

I was in constant pain - but very bearable - I pondered that all that walking under the weight of an almost full term tyke - had pushed my paunch muscles to the max, and my constant contraction was maybe just really tired and tight tummy muscles.

Walking didn't re-trigger the mornings' contractions , but every now and then I'd feel a cramping wave. I stopped timing them though - I'd had well enough of Daddy's app - and the ensuing disappointment when the numbers didn't come up trumps!  

Fortuitously, I had my weekly prenatal check-up that afternoon - can you believe I made it to yet another prenatal check?

I had to call late morning - once I conceded to myself that we'd actually be making it - to find out the appointment time (3:10pm). I hadn't paid any attention when I'd scheduled it - I'd been so sure we wouldn't need it. 

I felt a couple of contractions on the way. We were still maybe a 'go' - and maybe not. 

By the time I'd peed in a cup, and been weighed and rambled on about my 'false starts' and fake contractions to the nurse - the Doc deemed me a generous 3cm dilated! Yay for progress! My cervix had opened a whopping 1.5 centimeters since last week.

Two full-on mornings of Braxton-Hicks hadn't all been for nothing after all. But what slow progress - especially compared to the boys. It wasn't boding well for the speedy labour I'd been hoping for.   

I proudly relayed that I'd discovered my mucas plug in my pants that morning - meanwhile I was having another one of those silly contractions while sitting on the Doc's bench...

Of course all this didn't mean anything. The upshot was: It could happen anytime now..

*sigh. Well we already knew that. 

I made another 'bogus' appointment for next Monday. 

We drove home via HEB - I wanted to stock up the fridge - just in case the baby really was coming. Hindsight is 20-20, and it's easy to look back on the timing and realize (now) that I was having pretty regular and reasonably 'real' contractions by this time. I guess every 15 minutes or so.

Some might even say I was in labour.....

I recall at least two in the supermarket - the second one being pretty painful forcing me to lean over the trolley - while Daddy dawdled over ice-cream! Then there was another on the drive back.

When we got home we relieved our babysitting crew - Daddy's aunts - and Papa made a popping chili for a famished Momma.

At 6pm I recklessly wolfed down the biggest bowl of hot beans and mince. I resisted a second helping - thank God for that.

I reported the Doc's dilation results on Facebook - only realizing in the aftermath it read like I was already in the throes of labour. Looking back, perhaps I was....

Daddy took the dogs and the boys out for an evening walk. I was so convinced we wouldn't be meeting her that night. I told the hubs I'd walk out to meet him after making some courtesy calls - another walk couldn't hurt right?

It was sometime after 7pm when I called our close friend and stand-in birth buddy to give her an update as to the day's dalliance. Afterwards I called our night baby-sitting crew putting them on 'low' alert (mobiles by the bed).

It was during that second call - while talking to (one of) my Mother-in-laws - that I felt the first 'real' one. It shut me up, just for a few short seconds. My MIL noticed too - Momma doesn't shut-up too often.

I rang off and rapidly started racking the dishes. The kitchen was a wreck! What would the hubs' folks think were they to come over that night?

The next contraction - a mere two minutes later - had me doubled over at the dishwasher. I remember the oven clock reading 7:26....... then 7:29........ then 7:31. Time to summons Daddy.

They were coming fast and strong now.

I started out to fetch Daddy - bad idea - I didn't even make it as far as the deck gate before doubling over in agony. It probably wasn't the smartest idea heading out into the countryside anyway - at least so close to the end....

I retreated back inside to hunt down my philanderous phone. It was right there on the table - thank God for small miracles!

Daddy was at the door on the double and at my command calling in all the forces ASAP. I continued laboring while loading dirty dishes.

This was it!

These were contraction contractions. I'd fortuitously forgotten how merciless this pain was! Daddy loaded the car while I staggered around the house watching over the boys and waiting for back-up. They were bounding all over the house feeding off the excited 'baby's coming' energy.

The next twenty minutes or so was agonizingly slow - and the thought occurred that I really wasn't going to make it to the hospital. We were going to be on TV.

Birth partner and babysitters rocked up soon after, and in an attempt to accelerate an arduously long hand-over (minutes can feel like hours in full blown labor) I staggered out to the car hoping the hubs would follow quick-suit.

Save for groaning in primal pain - I didn't know how more subtly to get us moving to the hospital... stat.

Meanwhile Daddy was relaying dog feeding instructions....

I might be birthing a baby in the backseat, on the side of the highway, in 15 minutes - but at least the dogs wouldn't go hungry!

As soon as we got buckled in the two minute contractions stopped. Three minutes passed. WTF? The car ride had stopped them - then bam! After four minutes - holy cow! The pain was intensifying - and what a relief!

I wanted to have this baby. I was ready - more than ready - to bring this wee lady into the world!

'I fuckin' hate that triage room!' was all I could think during the car ride. That's the room they monitor for 'real' cases. The monitoring takes so long, while they 'make' you sit still! And sitting still slows it all down...

Daddy dropped me at the door and went off to park the car. I had to stop for three contractions while crossing the lobby - then another in the lift.

He overtook me somewhere on the maternity ward floor - racing past piled up with bags and a birthing ball.

I could here him hurriedly announcing to the nurse on attendance "She's coming - call the Doc, as soon as her waters break the baby's coming!"

Normally no self respecting neo-natal nurse will pay two hoots to panicky Papas. But this Papa was a seasoned pro.

All nurses eyes were on me as I slowly stepped into the ward.

I could see a flicker of recognition in Nurse Beverley's eyes. We'd bypassed triage!

Third baby status had finally given us the preggo-cred that all rookie parents rightly deserve! We should have had it right from the get-go three years back when boyo number one made his surprisingly speedy entrance!

Of course it had nothing to do with the ward being deserted - and a whole host of nurses desperate for some baby action!

My previous hospital experiences have all been up to par. There's been the odd complaint here or there - but this time they really listened. Mommy drove the show - once the admission and red-tape had been unraveled that was.

The only show-stopping question was "Do you want your water breaking?" What craziness were they talking - that's usually the highlight of my labours!

A quick "No interventions!" barked from Momma headed that one off. They hadn't been able to pull my birth plan from the system - but it didn't matter. I was clear and coherent enough to get this job done. I just needed someone to catch.

I regretted getting into my hospital gown the second it was on. It's hard to hold on to your dignity with just your arse cheeks bared. Better to go full frontal nude and butt-ass naked in my book!

Its press studs had been unprepped and after a few moments feeling like a fool the nurse created arm holes and clipped me in.

I was still in that 'I'd prefer to walk around in the nudie but don't want to look like an exhibitionist' place - so the pain had obviously not reached the 'I don't give a shit anymore' level. That happened a few minutes later.

One particularly irritating man was hung-up on my social security number - I didn't know the digits.

I was naked by then - I remember getting hot and yanking off my gown. My birthing buddy protected my modesty without me barely realizing it (thanks lady).

Nurse Bev handled him. I vaguely remember him hovering around while I was sitting naked and contracting on the bed... grubby penny pinching - pen pushing - perv he was!

I told him I was British - hence incapable of remembering a social security number.

Once they'd done their checks, drawn blood, gotten the hep-lock tapped into my vein and listened to baby, my endurance and patience for sitting had run its course. I tried to scoot off the bed, but the monitoring equipment held me hostage.

I was so desperate to stand I remember almost growling "Get these off me!" as I yanked fruitlessly at the monitoring pads strapped to my tum. Nurse Bev to the rescue - made short work of removing the straps and I was finally free to stand!

In spite of the brutal contractions I'd still been a 'don't panic we're only halfway there' 5cm - but both Daddy and I knew better. And thankfully Nurse Bev knew better too.

The hubs overheard her dismissing the second-in-command's suggestion to wait to call the Doc after they'd checked my uterus. Mercifully the Doc was on sight before we knew it.

I stood clinging to Daddy as the standing contractions coursed through my entire being, picking the pace up  a notch or two - it was back on like Donkey Kong!

I limped to the bathroom, sitting gratefully on the potty. I peed and farted - cursing my chilli gourge less than two hours earlier. I was going to be shitting and farting this lady out for sure.

The embarrassing notion soon paled in significance after a few paralyzing contractions on the can obliterated all but pain from my mind. Daddy helped me back on my feet and out into the room.

Sex in the City season 4 finale!
Miranda's waters breaking over Carrie's beloved shoes! 

By this time I was leaning heavily into the hubs feeling those bubble bursting contractions shake down through me.

I 'secreted' my waters to break, which they did - this time directly down - all over Daddy's $5 treasured thrift store Chacos!

Not quite the same league as Carrie's pricey pink ruffled Louboutin shoes that get showered in Miranda's waters - but just as precious to Papa!

Daddy's cheeky Chacos...

Carrie's legendary Louboutins!

Later Daddy told me he'd been secreting it too.

I vaguely recall the Doc and nurses engaged in a tete-a-tete regarding the plan of action - some nonsense about checking me again, after all I was still only 5cm and pretty posterior.. blah blah

I almost laughed out loud as I felt her moving down my uterus and I uttered those inevitable words "I need to push...."

That got their attention.

In spite of our warnings, for one iota of a second I saw utter disbelief on their faces - followed by swift action. I was up on the bed being checked in seconds. I heard - through my own groans - the blessed affirmation:

"Yes, it's all gone - she's fully dilated!" Then to me, "You can push now...."

Daddy interjected that we needed a mirror - which I kiboshed straight away. I wanted nothing to hold up this show. In a panic I cried out to my hubs, and held on to his hand tight.  The terror in that moment never goes away.

I really have to push a baby out of my vagina..... again? 

I'd missed the contraction, so I directed everyone to hang on before catching the next wave- seconds later I pushed through that pain... freezing while she crowned, then breathed, and mustering all my courage I pushed with all my might!

Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The second push was immense, and my girl came bursting out. With the speed she came out, it probably looked - and sounded - like a scene from aliens - only more blood!

No orgasm to report - at least not my kind of orgasm! A definite burning sensation which of course reached the clit - and every other outer vaginal region - once the head and shoulders raced through that ragged and ripped gash (a redundant choice of wording!)..

And there she was, sprawled between my knees on the bed, a blue-grey tiny baby alien bungeed to Mommy by the belly button.

I got some wonderful skin on skin time before my placenta and wounds needed tackling. My legs were shaking uncontrollably but other than that I was more present than I've ever been after my previous births.

My first birth I was hiding out somewhere on the ceiling, watching everything from a safe distance in my sublime bubble. Second birth I was more spent, plus there was no treacherous tear to tackle.

I watched in awe as Daddy cut the chord. He offered the honor to Mommy, but I felt I'd done enough - plus I still had my placenta to push out. More contractions came on cue..  and I felt a huge presence sitting in my vagina.

The Doc pulled the departed 'dessert' out and plonked it in a pot. It was as big as baby! Daddy could do wonders on the grill with that hunk of meaty nutrients. I didn't ask for a take-away box though - we're neither holistic nor hamsters after all!

Following the afterbirth scene, the Doc started to load up a nasty big needle to numb my nether regions. I watched in horror as she injected it into my already tender tissue in order to repair the rip down the center of my vagina.

Where in the center of my vagina?

I asked them to explain where twice, and I'm still not sure exactly where that tear is! I'm definitely more sore than ever before. (Maybe I'll take a mirror into the bathroom and examine myself tomorrow - though perhaps that's where Daddy will find me conked out on the floor).

I got to watch and feel the nip of a nasty u-needle again and again, and again....

The official times of my maternity milestones on record at the hospital are as follows:

9:49pm - Waters broke
9:51pm - Baby born

That's a total of two minutes 'pushing' - which included climbing onto the bed and a uterus check.

"So how many pushes?" I asked Daddy. He confirmed two.

"Momma's getting slack!" I joked. That had the Doc in stitches - while doing my stitches!

I'd broken my record and my vagina. The tear was the biggest I'd had with all three babes - although the Doc assured me she'd seen much worse. Yikes!

If I'd have taken more time, maybe the rupture could have been avoided - although I'd like to see anyone else try and hold one of my head-strong kids back once they've made up their mind it's a go...!

And for me (and her adoring Daddy) she couldn't have come a moment sooner!

The nurse was checking vital stats of my cheese covered Chiquita - before I even thought beyond 'baby'.

Measured up like Mary Poppins:
practically perfect in every way!

"Is she a girl then?"

"Yes!" Everyone laughingly chimed in.

And so we have a daughter. A divine and darling baby girl. Holy crap!

Once real labor kicked in, it only took her two and a half hours to cut loose. If we hadn't had to endure all the hospital procedure and red tape we might easily have shaved off twenty minutes or so.

Maybe next time....

Ha! I think we were having the "I think we're done.." convo, while the chord was still attached - or was I still pushing? That's probably when I was having the conversation with myself!

As we were leaving the hospital, Daddy thanked Nurse Beverley earnestly - then over his shoulder he couldn't help a parting shot,

"See you in another seventeen months!"

In the nine years I've known him, I honestly don't think I've ever seen him laugh so hysterically - especially at one of his own jokes!

What a load of BH!

Well, I don't believe it! - as Victor Meldrew liked to say!

The infamous and grumpy Victor Meldrew from British TV
classic sitcom One Foot in the Grave.

It's Thursday morning and today I don't feel even the slightest twinge. Not a tingle or a tightening - not even a trump. Nothing... absolutely nada!

What a tease she's already turning out to be! 

After the warning bells she's been giving me since Saturday and the dry-run yesterday, I'm totally baffled. Maybe this is the calm before the storm....

We're already into August. That's totally blown Momma's "She'll be a July baby for sure.." out of the water. I was convinced she'd be an early bird.

Tomorrow we'll be at 39 weeks exactly, and my sister-in-law/fabulous friend/birthing buddy will be heading out of state. *sigh...

The best things come to those who wait - Bah! Only if we're talking about Draft Guinness.

I need to stop anticipating it - maybe our excitement keeps scaring her back inside!

Like the Doc said - don't say anything to anyone, then she'll be here. Or plan a fun day out that's just begging to be spoiled. Sod's law she'll coordinate her arrival to rain on her big bros' parade.

I like how we're already predicting she'll be an awkward little sod.. but most girls are, aren't they?

The last of our summer visitors from Across The Pond took off to pastures new (Dallas) last Friday, without any sign of our Little Miss making her appearance.

And I'd been so convinced she'd be here at least to see them off.

Then Saturday night I felt the first real twinge - not quite a contraction, but a familiar tummy tightening all the same that put all my sensors on high alert. I couldn't help letting the hubs in on my excitement.

"I think we'll be meeting her tomorrow...."

The sensation didn't go away. It stayed until I fell asleep. I awoke in the morning somewhat surprised and perplexed that she hadn't arrived during the night. I was even more surprised not to be in labor and that the feeling had completely vanished. I'm telling you... tease!

It happened again Sunday night too. I was more hesitant about building the hubs' hopes up that time.

I wouldn't have said they were contractions (at least what I know contractions to be) - not even what I assume Braxton-Hicks contractions would feel like - just slight tummy cramping that goes hand-in-hand with the early onset pangs I'd felt before both boys started their journeys.

I never had Braxton-Hicks with the boys.

I was very surprised - and a little disappointed - to be making it to yet another prenatal check on Monday. I was super keen, however, to let the Doc check-out my dilation status.

What with the teasingly tight tummy sensations I'd been having at the weekend, and the overwhelming force pushing down on my punani, I was half-way convinced that after taking one glance at my vagina she'd be rushing me across to the maternity ward and they'd all be yelling 'push' by the end of the appointment.

Not so the case. In fact I was still a non-starter. No progress in 2 weeks. 1-2 cm dilated. 60% effaced, uterus still posterior. Humph.

I'd likely been feeling Braxton-Hicks (the Doc affirmed).

Even though I know the numbers don't matter one iota - and I know it will happen at anytime now - I can't help but feel a tad bit disappointed. I'm just an eager beaver - and I know the hubs is ancy to meet his daughter.

I was, once again, incredibly surprised - but not at all disappointed - to make it to my prenatal massage on Tuesday. At almost 39 and a half weeks there's no longer any need to exercise caution on those labor inducing pressure points. On the contrary.. have at it!!

My massage was wonderful (thank you Mommy friend), and by bedtime Tuesday night it was looking like my magical massage had done the trick!

No contractions - just a lot of pre-labor sensations - whatever the hell they are!

But Momma wasn't feeling up to a night labor, and for the first time (this pregnancy) I kind of crumpled in front of the hubs, admitting all my worst fears. It's not something I usually do. I don't want to freak the poor guy out after all.

My sleep had been erratic the previous two nights and having missed out on my day naps, the lack of sleep was catching up to me. With my head banging - a combination of sleep deprivation and dehydration, and an untimely bout of the worst gas and indigestion hitting me hard I was terrified of the ultimate pain challenge I thought I was about to face.

I told Daddy that I was considering taking an Ibuprofen. When he responded that he thought that was a good idea I stared at him utter dumbfounded.

Nuh-uh! Total and utter fail and we're not even off the starting block! What planet is Daddy on? Has he not read my birth plans... all three of them!

NO MEDS!!!

Now a glass of a wine... THAT's not bad idea...

OK, so we weren't actually in labor yet - exactly - but we could have been at any minute. His quick-to-supply-pills response to my first admission of weakness was not the answer I wanted.

Of course I'm not taking a bloody pill now! I've gone 9 months without...

I reminded him of our pain threshold code word (Scooby-Doo).

I wasn't intentionally testing Daddy. I shouldn't have mentioned pain killers if I didn't really want them right? WRONG! 

The advice behind a code word is sound (I got it out of some hocus-pocus natural birthing book). When we're in pain we're not always in our right frame of mind and it's likely we'll ask (or more likely scream) for help we wouldn't want if we were able to think straight.

A code word protects us from undesirable consequences. It makes us pause and really think about what we're asking of our loved ones and the professionals.

OK, so we're only talking about a bit of headache and a few trapped farts here but the same principal still applies - at least when I'm 9 months pregnant.

Incidentally, Daddy's dinner should have gone to the dogs.

What?! I'm 9 months pregnant -  Of course I'm a bit meaner!!

Both kids new better than to eat it. They both tried it before pushing it away in disgust (actually little kid floored his - literally). They've had it before - just a simple chicken stir-fry, souped up with mixed flavorings and peanut butter - and it's been a massive hit. Only last night Daddy way overdid it on the peanut butter.

He just couldn't help emptying that jar. I think it's an affliction we all have. We might as well use it up than waste the little bit that's left. Let's just ruin dinner instead, eh!

It definitely wasn't Daddy's finest work - no I'm not being mean. Daddy was the first to say it. Actually Momma was the only one to devour it.

Friends' Joey diggin'  Rachel's Trifle disaster while Ross
looks on in disgust!

I'm not picky - I would have been right there with Friends' Joey eating a trifle/shepherd's pie combo!

I'm also always hungry - even when I'm not pregnant. The first bowlful doesn't usually touch the sides. I'm usually already polishing off my seconds before my taste-buds have come around to the conclusion that dinner wasn't too crash hot.

It was a mistake though - as I found out soon enough. I'm not sure if it's fair to blame Daddy's dinner (it may have had more to do with the veggie-chips I annihilated at lunchtime), but whatever - the persecuting pain that followed in my chest, tum and gut was almost unbearable!

It felt like bubbles of gas - having found insufficient room in my intestinal track and tummy - were trying to hide out any place they could squeeze into.

A fairly close representation of Momma
on Tuesday night!

Holding my arms above my head and belching like Barny off the Simpsons was about all I could do to abate the pain.

But that instantaneous relief was only temporary. I was pulling the nastiest baritone belches from some inner gassy place, I never knew existed, well into the early hours of Wednesday morning.

Right up until the contractions started.

After belching out the last of the gas a little after midnight, I managed to squeeze a wee snooze in before I woke up at 3:30am - with my tummy cramping. My first feeling was relief - thank God the gruesome gas saga was over!

Once the wave of tummy pain had subsided the little lady started moving - really moving. So much so, that I got a little worried about her. Adding up all my symptoms in my sleep deprived brain had me panicking that she'd got herself tangled up in the chord - perhaps the cramping wasn't labor pains but something else....

She soon calmed down enough for me to calm down also and we both fell back to sleep. Then sure enough, only 20 minutes later I felt the cramping again. THIS was it.

Awesome. Perfect timing - after the worst night's sleep ever!

I wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon so I got comfy on the couch instead and attempted to watch a bit of Netflix. Of course big kid saw me on his early morning trip to Momma's bed.

But Momma's bed wasn't no fun without Momma in it - and seeing the flashing light box on the go - he was eager to snuggle up beside me and commandeer the TV. I almost managed to flick off The Inbetweeners before the shagging started... almost.

Thomas the Tank Engine it was then! I could have put him back to bed if I'd wanted to - but I really wanted his company.

I refrained from waking Daddy - in spite of my fear of a speedy labor (after the last one) - I was fairly sure we'd be OK until at least 5am. The contractions were every 20 minutes or so and not very strong - very reminiscent of the start of my eldest's birth.

Daddy had been awake until the early hours also. I think he was a little awed - albeit mostly disgusted - by Mommy's marvelous manly belches.

By 5am our big kid desperately needed to get back to bed and Mommy was already wiped out. I let Daddy know 'something' was happening, and passed the baton so he could put big kid back down.

I laid down and tried to get some much-needed shut eye. I was going to need it. Eventually - with a little help in the form of a foot rub from Daddy - I started snoozing, but the waves of pain had me opening my eyes and focusing on the red numbers on our digital clock every ten minutes or so.

I was progressing.

By 7am they were strong enough to prevent me from falling back to sleep. I didn't want to false-start anyone, but as a courtesy we let our babysitting troop and birth buddy know where things apparently stood.

Remembering in a bit of a panic that I hadn't 'mowed my lawn' so to speak, Daddy ran a warm deep bath, and prepped bags, brekkie and the like, while Momma had a date with a razor in the tub.

Baby boy (he won't be 'baby' much longer) was awake and on top form, completely unaware of the little cuckoo that would soon be sharing his nest...

I shaved and bathed, and ate my toast, while Daddy hovered over me, eager for the next contraction update...

Nothing.

The dull achy tight feeling remained. But the promising waves that had been strong and regular only moments earlier seemed to have relented. Without pausing to analyse the sudden change of pace, I gladly dived under my covers desperate to recharge my battered batteries.

I  fully expected to be pushing by noon and I wanted to have the strength to give it my all.

I snoozed on and off for an hour or so and I awoke to some pain closer to 9am - much weaker than earlier though. I assumed my bath had slowed them down.

When I entered the cabin, Daddy looked eagerly over at me for a contraction update. I put him off not wanting to break any bad news to him before I knew the scoop myself. Small waves of pain continued at erratic intervals but nothing to write home about. It was a false alarm.

Daddy was crushed, which in turn had me feeling crushed. I hate to disappoint him - or anybody else for that matter. And I was super keen to 'deliver' - especially on these goods!

The tightening feelings hadn't completely dissipated though, so we stayed on stand-by for the rest of the day. It's not over until the fat lady sings - and this fat lady wasn't about to break out in tune just yet...

Momma took at least five naps - falling into bed and fast asleep like only a Daddy knows how.

By late afternoon we were pretty clear it a false alarm. We're convinced I was experiencing my first Braxton-Hicks - although following two fast flow labors, I've got to say they were no different to the real deal.

For some reason or other Mother Nature keeps on cancelling the show. I'm guessing she realized one of her Momma comrade-in-arms was in desperate need of sleep catch-up.

Last night we all got a good 8 hours shut-eye and we're feeling much better for it. I don't think sleep can be stock-piled though, so there's no time like the present.

C'mon, oh wise Mother Nature - and my teasing tummy tenant! Now we're all rested up, and ready and rearing to go - it's game on!

And so we wait..............

anticipation....

Both kids are down for their noon time naps. So what on earth is this crazy 'on the Go' Momma doing up and blogging when I should be stealing my Zzzzzzs?

After all, it could all kick-off this afternoon (and I'm not talking about the Olympic soccer heats).......

Don't I need all the pushing power I can get?

Frustratingly I was almost asleep less than ten minutes ago - I had my nose nestled against our littlest's, with our breathing in sync and I was just reaching that delicious fuzzy about to drop off the edge of the world feeling, when a squeezing sensation in my intestines woke me right back up.

Straight away my brain shifted into high gear and all the cogs started whirring around, setting my body on high alert. Is this it?

You'd think that after two pregnancies it would be easy to recognize when my primed preggo bod is under 'starters orders' - but not so the case!

A heavy dose of anticipation makes it too easy to misread the slightest tummy sensations.

The onset of labor (at least for both boys) felt very much to me like a period poop. I know, I know - TMI right? I'm sorry, but there's just no better way I can describe it. 

So that's what I'm eagerly waiting for.

When I start to have slight period cramping in my tummy combined with a dull ache in my lower back and the urge to poop it's a fair guess that the little lady is on the move.

That wasn't quite the feeling that just woke me up, but it was close enough to get me excited. Just a bit of bladder pressure combined with a genuine urge to poop (easily mistakable).

Getting up off the bed for a potty break - especially without alerting baby boy to the fact that Momma is vacating the nest - is no easy fete.

I've mastered a somewhat nimble maneuver using my leg to brace my weight while I pull up to sitting. Then I can butt skooch to the edge of the bed. Alternatively, there's the rolling onto my hands and knees and crawling backwards off the bed option.

Either way those extra 38 pounds make it harder to keep Momma's momentum under control and each tiny shift can create an earthquake rippling effect across the family bed with the power to wake the dead (or at least the wee nipper...)

But not if I inch off ever so slowly..... and with girly pushing hard against my bursting bladder I often have to swallow some sharp and nasty blows during an already painful and painstaking process!

Once I've mastered getting off the bed, standing up is an even bigger challenge. Gravity can be such a bitch!

I don't remember having to cup my crotch before. But now, for some reason, I find it excruciating to waddle to the bathroom without holding on tight to my girly bits!

Thank God it's not an all day problem and I don't have to publicly grip my goods on my way to the ladies! Only when I first get out of bed and baby girl is sucked back down into a fully engaged position, does my hooch cry out for additional support....

Anyway, It turned out to be a false alarm of course. Just a regular everyday poop I'm afraid....

I probably should go back to bed - but I'm too damn excited.

I managed to squeeze in another prenatal check on Monday. I was hoping to be done with them weeks ago!

I even held off scheduling next week's appointment until today. I don't think I'll be needing it though....

OK, so I know even now (at 38 weeks) it's still a little premature to be expecting lady gaga to join the ranks, but I'm just so anxious to meet this bitty broad who's been bopping my bladder like crazy the last few weeks - and stretching my tummy in ways the boys never did!

She's been very generous on the stretching - until a week or so ago when a swirl pattern emerged around my belly button. My bump suddenly looks like a washing machine on full spin!

To be fair, I've been incredibly lucky on the stretch mark front - I guess I must be blessed with stretchy skin! My second baby was nice enough to give me a few battle wounds on the underside of my tummy, but those have since faded away to nearly nothing. 

Baby boy number one never left a single mark on my tum - barely any trouble at all that kid (both in and out of my belly)! 

He did, however, create strange stretch marks in a more - shall we say - unconventional place. And that was before stretching his way out of my vagina (btw I wasn't meaning my vagina....)

I remember Googling about stretch marks..  you know... in the...ahem... 'a' hole vicinity. I even plucked up courage to  ask the Doc, who you'd think would have seen everything.

Apparently not.

I remember feeling mortified when she asked somewhat aghast, 'How did you even find them?'

Oh c'mon! Doesn't everybody check themselves out in the mirror? Surely I'm not the only curious cat out there? Incidentally they seem to have disappeared altogether now... (Thank goodness for that - my porn star prospects aren't completely scuppered!) 

Which reminds me - this time around I'm hoping to watch the birth through a mirror. 

(Already rethinking this one!! A few accidental live birth image hits while searching for some (in)appropriate blog pics has this once-upon-a-time squeamish Momma quaking in my knickers!) 

I forgot to ask the Doc if they're set up for that - I could always get the hubby to hold a hand mirror if they're not...

Last week I put on a whopping 5 pounds! The Doc was very quick to reassure me that we preggos retain a lot of water in the last few weeks - nothing at all to do with the brownies then, eh? 

Baby belly was measuring spot-on though. I'm hoping she'll stay nice and tidy within the 7-8 pound region. My boys have made sure I'm already nice and prepped for that. 

Anything more and we'll be having to work on widening the gap..... not a pleasant thought!

The hubs has neglected to massage my perineum this time, and admittedly I'm not pushing for it. 

As intimate as the act may be, it's never been the most stimulating experience, having fingers and thumbs pull down and stretch the backside of my vagina opening - not exactly the foreplay you'd think it might be!

Instructional image showing *D.I.Y perineal massage.  

I'm not sure if the prenatal practice really does anything other than provide a hint of the sensation that is to come during crowning - and who the hell wants a taster of that? (unless of course, there's a hint of truth in that crowning orgasm legend....) 

The pinnacle burn - when baby's head finally pops through - is that rightful '10' on the pain scale that the nurses like to go by. It's a little tricky to provide an accurate number until the worst has happened.   

That stretch and burn - even without a rip - bites like a beeatch! 

When the hubby got out the olive oil last pregnancy I thought I'd handle the massage like a champ - I did have an experienced vagina after all. Who was I kidding!? And what a weeny I turned out to be! 

All the massage did was refresh my memory of the intense birthing pain that I'd buried in the deep dark depths of my mind - deep enough to make procreation only 9 months later seem like a top idea! 

This time I don't want to remember the pain until I'm thrust into the throes of it once again. That's probably why I'm not rooting for massaging my perineum and possibly why I declined the cervical check for the first time ever this week. 

The nurse clearly gave me an 'out' and I surprised myself when I took it. I've been given the right of refusal for the last three weeks now - and I'm really starting to get the impression that the Docs don't believe it's necessary. 

I think it has to do with this being my third baby. 

In spite of my curiosity I know the measurements don't really mean a jot. If I'm destined to leap from 5cm to 10cm and skip most of transition (like both my previous labors) I hardly think knowing whether I'm 1cm or 1.5cm will make much of a difference at this stage in the game. 

Daddy was a tad disappointed when I told him. I think he was hoping that a little 'Doctoring' would kick-start the birth. I'd rather not mess with mother nature thank you very much - although if Daddy wants to have a 'hand' in doing some agitating he's welcome to bring it on.....! 

The upshot is it could happen any time now. It would be convenient (and most considerate) if baby girl would oblige after a good 8 hours sleep, and before my sister-in-law leaves the state. 

Whenever she does finally decide to get a wiggle on, I'm sure we'll be ready for her!  

and then there were 7.......

multiplying like rabbits.....

Once upon a time there was a Mommy and Daddy who lived with two baby boys and two puppy dogs. Life was pretty full to the brim and with a 36 week old baby girl tucked away in the mommy's tummy things were set to take a turn for the busier any day....

On a freakishly foggy summer's morning (last Saturday) Daddy and the boys set out for a walk with the dogs, taking their usual trek along the dirt driveway of our neighbor's expansive property.

It wasn't far away from Daddy's scorpion saga POW POW POW site that they first heard the soft cries of baby kittens. Daddy was all set to follow the mews but of course our dogs were ahead of the game, and having already marked their prey they made chase.

Within seconds the dogs 'treed' what turned out to be a lone black kitten.

I didn't hear about this tale until much later on that day. Daddy didn't rescue what he referred to as 'wild kittens'. He had his hands full, what with the dogs and the boys.        

I was worried about their safety - roaming around Texas Hill Country with all the potential predators. It wasn't too crazy to think a possum or a hawk - or even a snake could gobble them up.

Still, common sense dictated that it wasn't strictly our problem, and if we wanted to set out in search for stray cats to save, sadly, we could find a million mangy minxes in need of a loving home. There was also a slight reticence to the word 'wild' which daddy had used to describe them. I didn't want to risk rescuing rabid cats!

It soon became our problem when the tiniest bit of black fluff brazenly made its way onto our land, in spite of its earlier run in with our safely penned would-be predators. Even with the dogs woofing wildly at the enticing little creature, it stood its ground from a safe distance crying out to us, "Help! Help! Help!".

What was a Momma to do? I set out a small bowl of water and a jar of Gerber baby chicken puree (from the same baby food stash that pulled our parvo pup back from the brink last winter) on our driveway and waited a wee while, then I tried to approach stealthily - but how much stealth can an eight month preggo Momma pull off?

My slow waddle was never gonna cut it, besides my paranoia of contracting a harmful baby bump disease was a major debilitating factor. Instead a nimble footed Daddy was nominated to snare the stray kit. He eagerly rounded on the wee wild one and before long he had her stashed in a big cardboard box that had formerly housed our outdoor grill.      

It crossed my mind that there was only one, and Daddy had thought he'd heard a pair. Well, this one was obviously the wilier one of the two - a hardy survivor of this treacherous territory. Hopefully hardy enough to hold its own with two mutts and two toddlers...

I wasn't sure if it was a good idea to adopt it. Of course it wasn't a good idea - it was a terrible idea, but Daddy was already in love with the wee beastie. I remember hearing tales of newborns being suffocated by cats snuggling up tight over their milk mouths, and that cat poo was potentially toxic for an unborn child. Not such a shocker then that I harbored doubts and yet still my heart was already inclined to give this kitty a fighting chance in our family.. blasted pregnancy hormones!

Mommy did a bit of online research on possible diseases that the wee waif may be carrying and although there were mild risks of human contraction (minimal risk of rabies) - the only real risk was to unborn baby from ingesting cat poo. 

Well that was settled then. No matter how peckish preggo Momma was feeling I would refrain from snacking on Kitty-Kat litter contents!

We did a little (little being the operative word) investigative work in the neighborhood, just in case someone was missing their much loved kitty cat. OK, we asked one neighbor - the one whose land Daddy was walking on when he first spotted the runaway (the same land that one of our pooches got a bullet in the butt). It didn't belong to them.  

Surely that was already going beyond the call of duty? Hadn't we searched enough? Perhaps we should have posted signs up on our road....

Ah well, isn't possession 9/10 of the law? Finders keepers, right? In all likelihood the poor thing had been abandoned so I didn't feel too bad about not aggressively searching for its rightful owner.

In this case one man's trash was definitely another Daddy's (and two little boys') treasure!

Our youngest loving on his 'Uh-Oh'

The kitty was a hit with the baby boys from the get-go, especially our 16 month old, who has nick-named it 'Uh-Oh'.  At least that's what he calls to it repeatedly whenever it's roaming free in the cabin. I think he thinks it's escaped - or is in danger - and needs to be safely returned to someone.

He follows it around calling "meow" and signing 'cat', before picking it up and handing it back to Daddy or Mommy or big brother. He repeats this over and over, and strangely - as fast as that kitty is, and as unwittingly rough as our 16 month tot may be - it's seemingly happy to let baby boy pick him up and handle him... 

The eldest is obviously captivated too - but not to the same extent.

The cat hasn't hissed once at the boys, or lashed out a claw. She hasn't, however, extended the same courtesy to the dogs. We let them in last night to meet and greet family member number 7. Instantly - and unprovoked - we saw our feline friend turn feral for the first time. Perhaps she remembers her earlier encounter with the ferocious animals when they ungraciously chased her up a tree.

We gated the cabin so the dogs and cat were separated but still able to watch each other warily - I'm not sure who exactly we were protecting though. The dogs eyed up our black fur ball much like they would a rawhide treat. Pup barked a couple of times and kit hid under the couch. 

It could have been worse. It'll take a few more meetings before they're snuggling up together on the rug!   

Once again Daddy is cat-happy. We've had two cats cross our paths in the past - never before a black one - both of which we fostered briefly before our inevitable departure overseas. 

Admittedly Daddy's predilection for petting pussy has conjured jealously in the past - but finally Mommy is in that place of utter fulfillment (and sheer exhaustion) to finally let some of other willing creature lavish in the loving hands of papa bear. More guilt-free time for Momma to blog!!

Now we have to think of a name for the wee 'beastie' - which Daddy already threw out there. Our eldest has tried it out on his tongue a couple of times, but it hasn't stuck tho. 'Uh-Oh' is also a contender, and 'Kitty Kat'. 

I generously offered the name Eponine - the little waif and stray from Les Miserables (Daddy's favorite musical and top of his baby girl name list) - as there's not a cat in hell's chance that our little girl should be so lucky!

The name just lends itself to such ribbing and ridicule (Epi, panini, punani to list a few) besides which her literary character is not so endearing as her musical counterpart - no matter how well she can belt out a tune! 

But I figure for a cat that will stay largely within the family home and not have to attend school or ever worry about getting a job, the name Eponine surely can fly. Admittedly it was only Momma that thought up the barrage of nasty nicknames - so perhaps poor 'punani' the pussy is not safe from ribbing and ridicule after all.... 

We are open to suggestions (bearing in mind we still don't know for sure if she's a girl or a boy). What would you name our newbie family recruit? 

TMI Friday!

It's Friday again (well it is in Australia), which means two things for this Momma: Firstly it's time to link up to my bloggy friend Tropical Mum who lives Across The Pond (not the usual pond I'm talking about) with a bit of witticism and Mommy mirth. Secondly it's time to spread my knees (if you please) and let the Doc check out if the Little Miss is making headway - so to speak.     

Baby is 36 weeks old today, so the count down to push time is most definitely on. A spontaneous pants wetting episode at the start of the week had Momma thinking baby's bubble had burst - but after a bit of Googling and a call to the nurse practitioner I'm now pretty convinced my amniotic sac wasn't responsible for saturating my skivvies - or for the puddle on the bathroom floor. We shall say no more. Nevertheless I'm somewhat eager to get my cervix checked out today. It feels close.

Last Friday I had my first vaginal check this pregnancy, which started out with the somewhat invasive strep B test. After swabbing a pugil-stick inside my vagina (no biggy) and a chocolate starfish sweep (a touch more embarrassing), the Doc caught me completely off guard by politely asking if I wanted my cervix checking.

I've never been asked before. I thought it was standard procedure for the Gyno to get their hands dirty at this stage. I hesitated. It's easy for me to over-think these situations: Why did she ask me? Doesn't she want to check? Of course she doesn't - why would any woman voluntarily stick her hand up inside a stranger's vagina!?!  

I couldn't do it - much like waxing bikini lines for a living - dealing with my own vagina is plenty enough punani for me, thank you very much. Yes, I realize it's beautiful (yahda yahda)  just like a flower... 

What a crock! It's got to be one of the ugliest 'attractions' known to man but for some reason nearly every man on earth loves to leer at those ghoulish red creases. I just can't fathom how that and Beyonce can both be deemed beautiful! 

hmmm, rose or vagina?

Beautiful Beyonce

Of course I'm not complaining. There are many kinky kick-backs to having your man mad about your muff! 

It's a magnanimous mystery that mother nature should let men (and a few lucky ladies)  look upon our vaginas through rose tinted spectacles. Sadly I'd be a pretty poor lesbian - I'm sure I'm missing out.

But how game are the Gynos really? Surely they are gluttons for punani punishment - they must encounter a million muffs a day! And they chose this profession! Even the male docs must get vaginad out by the end of the day.

Friends' vagina Doc sums it up on his date with Rachel the waitress: "Okay, all right, well aren't there times when you come home at the end of the day, and you're just like, "If I see one more cup of coffee..."

Back of the bathroom door instructions for
collecting a clean midstream urine sample.

Much like our faces, each coochi must be different - of varying degrees of ugliness. And I'm guessing that muff maintenance and cleanliness is not always up to scratch (and sniff) - especially in this Texas heat. The Gyno-clinic must be humming like Grimbsy fish docks by mid-August!    

That's got to be the real reason behind the mid-stream (clean catch) collection instructions posted on the back of all the bathroom doors in the building. If I had to have my head hovering around vaginas all day long I'd definitely want to make sure all the ladies had thoroughly wiped their fannies first!  

I have to say, punani protocol when it comes to pap smears and giving birth has always been a bit of a quandary for me. For my first labor I went for the fairly normal 'bearded clam' approach - we're not talking a full on long beard here - more of a genital goatee. 

a  bit like this....

OK, perhaps not quite so straggly as Brad's chin pubes but hopefully you get the idea! 

Then the last go round I went all out with a bare muff! Don't be shocked - I was hoping for a bit of regrowth by my due date but the little man was eager to be outta my beaver.  

I'm curious about how all you other Mommas out there presented yourselves for your births? Did you trim, or shave, or wax? And if so, how much is too much? I mean - is a shaven haven a little sluttish for a birth? Or is it just sensible for vagina visibility? I realize back in the day there was little to no pubic preening - or leg shaving for that matter. A bit of rug burn on the way out must have been par to the course.       

When exactly did our feminine fringes become so unattractive? After all it's such a natural thing. But it's no longer just our pubic hair that's causing offence. All of a sudden our actual vaginas and even our buttholes have come to the attention of the beauty industry. A muddy starfish is no longer acceptable - not when you can peroxide that peripheral! The first I'd heard of butt bleaching was earlier this year. Then I stumbled across vajazzing - and I'm blown away. You can even firm up those flaps and give your labia a lift! 

Many years ago back in the UK there used to be a Friday night late show called Eurotrash that showed you all the wacky sexual eccentricities that our European neighbours were into - I remember one week it featuring a waxing salon that would shape your pubic patch into any pattern you wished and even tie in a bow if you so desired. The exclusive service had to be performed with the customer on all fours so that all the hairs in all the folds and crannies - butthole included - could be accessed easily for a clean wax!   

No longer an obscure fettish, vajazzing is getting to be a trendy business! Has the world gone mad or is it high time we put a bit more vigilance into vajazzing our vaginas? We've been making-up our faces for centuries now, and we're all happy to fancy-up our feet - what's so wrong with garnishing our gashes for the guys? After all, don't we want it to look good enough to eat?

Are our fellas behind this push for beautifying our bits - or are other women behind this new fangled fancy? 

Perhaps the OBs have orchestrated it all! 

So, back to last week; I'm laying back trying to think of England with only a swift uneven shave of my bikini region to show for my vaginal efforts. Should I have dressed up down there?    

     

I was dying to know if baby girl's head was down, but it seemed a little forward to eagerly reply; "Yes, please!" so I tried to muster a casual (and very British); "If you wouldn't mind.." 

It's not the most pleasant experience, having a hand reaching right back to your cervix - in fact sometimes the Doc's probing can be pretty painful. Trying to maintain my dignity, I've always endured these internal exams without wincing, and usually I prattle on about something irrelevant - making out like I don't even notice that her hand is stuffing me like a Christmas turkey! 

All the while I'm thinking about those poor cows who often have a vet's arm - sometimes both arms - stuck inside all the way up to their elbows! And inevitably I cant help my unruly thoughts flitting to the pornographic practice of fisting for fun - I mean WTF? 

Even after two vaginal births - two fingers pushing against the back wall of my vagina is enough to make my eyes water - I can't conceive of how a clenched fist could be physically possible, let alone enjoyable! If the poor OB could read Momma's messed-up mind wanderings I'm sure she'd have security remove me from the building!!

I got the info I was wanting: head down (you go girl!), 50% effaced, 1cm dilated, everything feels soft.

Basically we're good to go! So now I have to figure out how I want my hooch to look for the actual birth. It's kind of like deciding whether or not to go for an up-do for your wedding day, only a much smaller group of folks will actually get to admire the handiwork. 

I've been playing about with the idea of watching the birth through a mirror this time around, so I can see the crowning glory for myself. Perhaps for performance purposes I'll be better able to push if I'm proud of my preened punani - a bejeweled box with bows might be a tad bit distracting for Momma, although what a way for my little diva to make her way into the world!

Talk about making an entrance! 

What do you think ladies (and I'd love to hear what the gents have to say on this hairy issue also)? We've talked about waxing our tashes - how about waxing our asses?!