Third Time's A Charm

If you had asked me 6 weeks ago if I was going to have another baby, I would have told you--in no uncertain terms--absolutely not. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. But then something happened: Alex hit the magical 6-month mark.

It's the same thing that happened after Lucas was born. One day I'm be-boppin' & scattin' along, completely content with my solitary son, and the next I'm telling Ron I think I should get off the pill so we can start trying again. And we did actually "try" with Alex, which was a joke. For 3 months I bought those stupid ovulation tests, which are basically target practice for when you take the "real" test. I never could catch a hormone spike with those stupid things. So we tried, which was annoying. If you have ever actually "tried" to get pregnant in a keeping-track-of-ovulation kind of way, you know what I mean. And with no results by early April that year, I told Ron that we were going to abstain until further notice so as not to conceive a Christmas baby.

He was fine with that, so fine, because his birthday is December 19th, and as he will be happy to tell you, it sucked when he was a kid. His siblings always hit the proverbial birthday goldmine, while little Ronnie got the shaft--one present to cover both occasions. So for that reason and the fact that I absolutely did not want to spend the Holidays on bed rest, we abstained. Except for one teensy little indiscretion the night before Audri & I left for Minneapolis. Except for that one time. And wouldn't you know...I spent Christmas home alone on the couch, lying with a pillow between my knees & timing contractions while Ron took the boys to celebrate in Glenwood. Happy Effing Holidays.

So this time when we decided to go for number three I told Ron, "And we're not going to actually try, like I'm not going to track anything. We can just have fun and see what happens." You'd think I would have learned something by now, wouldn't you? Like I'm sure as soon as those words were out of my mouth, people in the back of the theater were covering their eyes in horror & shouting, "Nooooo...Don't go in there!" Yeah, well, after you.

Off the pill I came. And since I didn't even have a standard "green week," I thought, "Oh great, I'm not even ovulating. Fan-tastic." I am 35, after all, and at 35 (according to one report) only 55% of women will successfully conceive after a full year of trying. So I waited. And waited. And I thought, "I wish I'd get my freakin' period so I'd at least know that I'm functional." Not that that has anything to do with whether or not you're actually ovulating. But I digress.

So...still waiting. Then last Thursday when I got home from work, just for S&G (and because if you're a woman and have ever gotten into the addictive cycle of peeing on sticks "just to see if maybe") I grabbed a First Response out of the linen closet ("linen and pee stick closet" more specifically) and headed to the bathroom.

"Ron?!" I hollered. Then walking out into the living room, eyes fixed to the tell-tale stick, "Ro-o-on!" Where the hell was he? "Where are you?!" I yelled.
"In the kitchen?" from the next room. Oh.
"I think we're freaking pregnant," I said rounding the corner.
"What?!" So this is what it takes to get his attention away from the computer monitor.
"Seriously," I handed him the stick, "How many lines do you see?"
He looked down at the decisive lines I had thrust in front of him. "We're pregnant," he said, "Holy crap."

So we're shocked of course, but only sort of. God forbid I would be off the pill longer than two weeks before getting pregnant. Wouldn't want to be normal or anything. Now we're just waiting for my first doctor's appointment on September 13th to find out the actual due date, though we're guessing the last week of April or first week of May.

Let the games begin!

We Are, How You Say...

...pregnant again! Just found out this morning.
Details to follow, but to answer immediate questions:

Yes, on purpose.

No, not trying for a girl.

About 15 months apart.

If all goes well I will end up with 3 children at or below the age of 34 months.
And you think I'm crazy now?

Mars & Venus on the Couch

Tonight we're watching a repeat of "Scrubs" when a new Sprint commercial comes on. Perhaps you've seen it. Accelerated grey film with neon-like doodles that appear and change along with the voiceover. Toward the beginning is a line that goes something like, "When you were young, what did you dream about as you fell asleep?"

At which point my husband, sitting next to me on the couch with feet propped on the coffee table, says as though on cue, "Boobs."

"What?"

"Boobs. Didn't you see the boobs just then?"

"Oh my God," I'm laughing now, "WHAT?!"

"Those were boobs."

"Ron, seriously. Oh my God, those were not boobs!"

"Those were subliminal, neon boobs!"

I get up and walk into the kitchen to get a drink. "You have lost your shit," I say.

"They were boobs," he says, rising as I sink back into my seat. Five minutes later he is still not back. I mute the television. The distinctive clatter of a computer keyboard. I know exactly what he's doing, which triggers in me an eye roll reminiscent of the finest slot machines.

"Ron," I get up and walk into the kitchen where he is hunched over my keyboard, gazing pie-eyed up at the monitor, "seriously, you are not--"

"See?!" he interrupts, "They are BOOBS!" He has of course, being my husband, Googled the new Sprint commercial, played it, and frozen the screen on the moment in question.

"Fine Dear," I concede with only a hint of sarcasm, "they are boobs. Hairy, blinking boobs," referring to their apparent eyelashes and deceptively eye-like motion. Not to mention that they are floating among similarly drawn stars, as though suggesting nighttime and sleep. Unless he thinks the stars are fireworks someone has shot off to celebrate the appearance of magical, disembodied breasts.

"You can't tell me they didn't do that on purpose," he says.

"Sure I can." Oh, Testoste-Ron. You dear, sweet Man.

I Heart Motherhood

It is insane to me how much I love being a mom (and I don't think that's the just the Zoloft talking, although I'm sure it doesn't hurt). No I really just feel like I've hit my stride with the boys, and considering I was never even sure that I wanted kids to begin with, it kind of seems like a miracle.



As with most things in my life (save, perhaps, this blog [thought I should point that out before someone else did]), I go for full-contact motherhood. No half-assed crap up in here. Unless you count the bottle-feeding thing. But I digress. If you've ever wondered who on Earth takes the time to read all of those crazy parenting books, um, you're lookin' at her. Among other things, the bookshelf above my desk contains the following titles: The Happiest Baby on te Block, The Happiest Toddler on the Block, Common Sense Parenting of Toddlers and Preschoolers, The Baby Book, The American Academy of Pediatrics Guide to Your Child: Birth to Age 5, Playskool Toddler's Busy Play Book, and Unplugged Play: 710 Games and Activities for Ages 12 Months to 10 Years. Not to suggest that I've read every single page of every single book, but let's just say we're acquainted.

The Best Part About Sharing Your Blueberry Muffins With a Just-Turned-Two-Year-Old

They don't know the tops from the stumps.

Jerky

My house smells like meat.

Not because I'm cooking or anything. It just smells like meat. This has been going on for about two weeks, and it's about to kill me. At first I thought I might just be pregnant and experiencing the accompanying hypersensitive nose, but after peeing on numerous sticks (pregnancy tests, I mean), I eliminated that possibility. Ron claims he doesn't smell anything, although he was quick to suggest it might be the cats. "Guess we'll have to get rid of them," he quipped. He says this a lot. Anyway, as someone who has had cats for going-on eleven years, I can assure you (and Ron) that they are not the source or this particular odor. Unless they've tricked out a barbie in the basement, which is possible (but not likely).

First we changed the air filter hoping that had something to do with it, but it didn't help. Then, I bought a Glade Plug-Ins Scented Oil Fan (Fresh Linen, to be specific), which only made the place smell like "Flowered meat," as my spouse so delicately put it (funny, since he claims he can't smell anything). Let me tell you, though, Ron knows from meat. When he lived in Bettendorf, he had a fair to partly sketchy apartment (at idyllic "Chateau Knoll") that always smelled like meat. It was like the guy downstairs ran his food dehydrator 24/7 & gave out free jerky with the crack. Anyway, now our house smells like eau de Chateau with no downstairs neighbor to blame it on.

So every time I enter the house it's like I get rolled by Slim Jim & his wing man (Jack Link). On the off chance that anyone else has experienced a similar, disembodied meat scent phenomenon, please advise as to how I might convince it to go into the light. I'm desperate. And we're running low on A-1.

Poll Dancing

I don't know about you all, but lately my caller ID has been absolutely lit up with political and special interest pollsters. Bo-ring. I actually got a call the other day from the National Right To Life Association. Of course, as this was the highlight of my day, I couldn't help but answer:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Miss Lee?"
"Hi!" I said, enthusiastically, "Is this the National Right To Life Association?"
"Yes, it is," said the nice lady on the other end.
"Yeaaah," I paused, "You're gonna want to take me OFF your call list."
They must have gotten my name during my temporary stint as a Registered Republican during Nebraska's last gubernatorial primary, when I switched parties to vote for Governor Dave (and against Coach Tom). Anyway, needless to say I will not be contributing money to, nor will I be supporting in any way/shape/form, candidates who find favor in the National Right To Life Association. As if.