I wouldn't say I hate my lady parts...

...but, we are not on the best of terms right now.

I had my 39 week doctor's appointment today and man, talk about a downer. I went in and nothing, and I mean NOTHING is happening DOWN THERE. In my LADY BITS. Well, I mean, you know, my INTERNAL lady bits. My SPECIAL PLACE. Am I being too gentle in my description for you to get the point? Let me elaborate:

MY CERVIX IS NOT DILATING. MY UTERUS IS NOT DOING ANYTHING TO HELP MY BABY GET OUT MY HOO HOO. I AM GOING TO BE PREGNANT FOREVER.

Even my doctor was all, "Girl, this is a second baby, what is going on here?" and I'm all, "I don't know, could this be punishment for watching porn that ONE TIME just because I was CURIOUS? Is that, like, a thing?? Porn punishment through never-ending pregnancy?!" (Apparently, no, that is not medically "a thing" so, you know, whew. Dodged that bullet)

I started to get kind of irrational upset, but then I remembered that during my last pregnancy, I wrote a post about how lazy my cervix was being. Which kind of made me feel better because I still had Kate on my due date, and if I remembered correctly, my body wasn't doing tons to eject her before I went into labor either. So I rushed on home, looked up my post and BAM. Felt horrible again because OMG that post was from SEVENTEEN DAYS before Kate was born. And, to make matters WORSE, I may have felt that not much was going on down there towards the end of my last pregnancy, but at least it was giving off a "we're going to have this baby sometime this year" vibe. Whereas today, my special place is all, "I COULD start working to get this baby out, but I am le tired. I'll take a nap and think about starting the whole process tomorrow. MAYBE. Yawn."

I'm about to take my special place out and beat it to death.

Just when it can't get worse, it gets better

Yesterday I was having a rough day. Not only was I coming down with a cold, but I had no energy and no patience. After ten plus days of 100+ degree weather, I was toast. All I wanted to do was lay in bed with the a/c turned down to "FREEZING", while reading some senseless romance novel and rubbing lotion on my ever-expanding belly. Instead, I found myself rolling around on the floor of our play room, reading a book about Elmo's first day of school for the 500th time and playing dolls while my two-year old literally used my aching, 35-week pregnant body as a jungle gym/barca lounger.

I finally needed a break and hauled myself into Kate's mini-chair (which I barely fit into). She followed me from across the room and handed me one of her dolls. "Say HI" she demanded for the millionth time. I burst into tears, tossed her doll across the room and sobbed "I don't WANT to say "hi" Kate. Please, please for the sake of mommy's sanity, please PLEASE play BY YOURSELF for just one tiny moment."

Kate looked at me with VERY little pity for a moment, then wandered across the room to find where I had thrown her doll while I continued to boo-hoo. And in a case of perfect timing, Ben came home while I was still pulling myself together, so he got the full tattle-tale report from Kate who indignantly told him I threw her doll and cried. I gave her the stink eye, but apparently she is impervious to its power because I swear she just smirked at me over her dad's shoulder and repeated "and then SHE CRIED daddy!"

Ben decided I needed to get out of the house so we packed up and headed to the mall to run some errands. He promised to be in charge of Kate and let me just wander around, leaking hormones and hopefully de-stressing. We walked into the mall and I mentioned, "By the way, keep an eye out for the closest bathroom everywhere we go. You want to be able to book it if she has to go."

I don't know if that comment jinxed my poor husband, or if this was all destiny, but not five minutes after I sat on a bench to do a little zen people watching, I saw Ben RUN out of a toy store with Kate in his arms. He ran down a hallway that I knew to be a dead end and then came running back out with panic on his face. I decided to take pity. "Bathroom?" I called. He nodded and I trailed him shouting directions to the closest toilet. He disappeared in the men's room as I came huffing around the corner. I sat outside and waited to see if he needed any help.

Five minutes later, I heard Kate giggling and saying "OHHHH BUBBLES." Another minute or two and Ben popped his head out of the bathroom to ask if we had any extra clothes. I had to tell him no, I had been a little too mental when we left the house to be my normal, prepared self. He popped back into the bathroom and then came out carrying Kate with paper towels wrapped around her bottom.

"Can you tell she is naked under there?" he asked me.

Not to get into too many details, but apparently Kate had some bowel troubles and Ben had to throw away her panties and wash out her pants. Which meant he had to carry her through the mall half-naked. With me trailing them, alternating between laughing out loud and then giggling to myself the whole way. Because, when it happened to me, yeah, it was pretty traumatic. But to see my daughter poop on my husband? That is some funny stuff right there.

We get to the car and use every wipe, sanitizing gel and napkin we can find to ensure both Kate and Ben are squeaky clean. And thanks to an extra set of Kate clothes in the car, we are able to head back into the mall to finish up our errands. The only real issue is the leftover poop stains on my husband's long-sleeve work shirt. He rinsed and rolled up the sleeve to hide the offensive stain, but wasn't sure if it was enough.

Ben: "Can you tell I've got crap on my sleeve?"

Me: "No, but you are wearing an undershirt, why don't you just take your button-up off?"

Pause.

Ben: "Gross, no. I'm wearing a V-neck"

Pause.

Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?

Love letter to a hater

Okay, so social media is a forum for over-sharing. And when you over-share, you open yourself up to all kinds of feedback. Positive, negative and just plain wacky and weird. I totally get it, and because I've often found myself talking about things like bodily fluids, fearing the penis and digging cookies out of the trash, I  really kind of deserve a good tongue lashing every now and again for being WILDLY inappropriate.

However, once in a while a comment just really needles me. You know, the kind that in your mind is so unfair, so undeserved, you just sit stunned for a second and then feel desperate to respond because you KNOW you have been wronged and if you just had an opportunity to provide a rebuttal everyone would see things your way?

Yeah. I had one of those comments today (sorry, not on the blog but another fabulous form of social media so you'll just have to use your imagination instead of finding actual comment). It was a comment to a totally innocuous question that came off as extremely judgmental. Maybe it was made in jest, but LORD HELP ME there wasn't a smiley face or any other emoticon that might indicate a little levity, so I was fairly ready to plant my fist in someones face after reading it.

I wrote several theoretical comebacks. Some had smileys, some were a little more pointed, and one version was just, "EAT ME" but I erased all of them. I just tried to keep telling myself that by engaging said person in some sort of verbal scuffle, I was giving what they said, and their hateful thoughts, too much importance. 

But hours later it is still eating at me. However meaningless this comment was, something about it made me feel LESS. Feel SMALL. Hours later, I'm still chewing on it, so this is what I want to say:

Don't judge me. Don't judge my lifestyle, my family, how we spend our time or how we spend our money. You have no right.


I'm proud of my family. I'm proud of our life, our home, our love and our respect for one another. I'm proud of how we've chosen to prioritize our time, energy and money to create this life. I'm proud of what we've accomplished, what we've built here. And I'm thankful. I'm thankful for it all. 


I'm not perfect. I'm not the perfect wife. I'm not the perfect mother. I'm me, but I'm doing a damn good job of being me, and that is the best thing I can do for my husband and for my children. 


So don't you dare judge me. You have no right.

Oh, and P.S.

EAT ME.

Fishing for compliments

I've recently been reminded why fishing for compliments, especially with one's spouse, can be a bad idea. This happened after meeting a couple in our neighborhood who were also having a kiddo in August. They were out walking (exercising). We were (obviously) NOT exercising, but instead watching our daughter spin in circles in the front yard and taking bets on whether she would puke when she was done, or just fall down.

Ben: I need to start walking with you. We should make that a "thing" like last time you were pregnant. You know, walking, you getting exercise.

Oh, yeah, chasing a two-year old isn't exercise at all. Good thing I have you to help me "work out" 

Me: Yeah, it would be good for me to get out and walk more.

Ben: Man, that is crazy she is due the same day as you.

I'm due seven days later, but whatever, this seems close enough so I'll give him the point.

Me: Yep, that is pretty crazy.

Still focusing on the "you need to work out" thing and feeling slightly insulted/insecure in my belly-ness. I'll let him redeem himself here.

Me: Do you think she looked better than me?

LOADED QUESTION. Do. Not. Get. This. Wrong.

Ben: No

Good man.

Ben: I mean, she was smaller than you.

Wait. WHAT?


Ben: I mean, she had a smaller frame.

As in, I'm NORMALLY fatter than exercise lady, so I can't help being fatter in pregnancy??


Ben: And this is her first kid.

So, since I'm already a mom its OKAY that I'm fatter?

Ben: Plus, she was wearing work out clothes, you know, tighter fitting, instead of a big flowing dress.

But I'm not wearing a dress! I'm wearing pretty tight fitting jeans. I don't understand what is happening here? Where is my compliment? Where is my "You look fantastic honey" or "You are the most beautiful pregnant person I've ever seen." WHERE IS IT?!


Me: But... (insert bewildered and wild stare here) I'm not even WEARING a big flowing dress...

Ben: Yeah, but you know what I mean.


What?! What do you MEAN?? No I don't know WHAT YOU MEAN.


Me: Um...


Alternating between crying inside and imagining my fist in his face. Must. Seem. Non-Hormonal...


Me: Sooooooo, what's for dessert?

Week 28 -- The Best is Yet to Come

I'm officially in my third trimester, and I'm happy to report that with this new stage of pregnancy, I've also experienced some fun new "symptoms" (for lack of a better word), including burping, nose bleeds and extreme stupidity.

The burping and nose bleeds aren't enjoyable, but besides being embarrassed because I giggle every time I burp (I've never been ABLE to burp before so now I find it highly amusing) I can deal with these little annoyances.

What I can absolutely NOT fathom is my newly found extreme stupidity. Extreme. Sure, I've complained of "pregnancy brain" -- the forgetfulness that comes with having a baby (and which leads my husband to tell me that the baby is sucking my brain) but I had an experience this Sunday that later led me to wonder if perhaps Baby E really IS sucking my brain, and will I have any brains left to work with after she is born?!

Chances are not good. Because on Sunday morning, I woke up in a fog and rolled over (ungracefully -- got that big ol' belly, remember?) in bed to ask my husband "What is today's date?" to which he told me it was December 28 and I realized I had forgotten my Dad's birthday the day before (December 27). FORGOTTEN. I felt awful. I felt like an ingrate. My father is such a doting, caring and loving guy, and I had just basically wiped my feet with his special day. I spent the morning mentally head slapping myself and generally feeling like I was the scum of the Earth. But it didn't end there.

As the whole Edelbrock clan loads up in the car to head to church, Ben announces in the car that I've forgotten my father's birthday (okay, maybe he didn't "announce" or "point fingers" but at that point in my guilt-ridden morning I was fairly certain that he had just told my in-laws that I was the worst daughter on the face of the planet). And with that, the guilt multiplied because not only was I a bad person, but people KNEW I was a bad person now.

And to top things off, when we get to church the priest starts talking about the theme of that Sunday which was family, and how important family was and I swear in less than 30 seconds I had tears ROLLING DOWN MY FACE. Pair extreme guilt with pregnancy hormones and a normal person doesn't have a chance -- Hell, SUPERWOMAN wouldn't have a chance.

I was a wreck.

But as I slowly pulled myself together, the TINY part of my brain that hasn't been taken over by the baby started to struggle with why I was upset. Because that TINY part that can still think rational thoughts is reminding me that I've never been in town to celebrate my Dad's birthday with him over the Christmas break. And that is because my Dad's birthday isn't on December 27 at all.

Let me repeat that.

My Dad's birthday is 100% NOT on December 27, but on December 29, the NEXT day. I had NOT missed my Dad's birthday.

I HAD however, been completely and utterly convinced that his big day was on the 27th. Despite 28 years of knowing this date the EXTREME STUPIDITY of pregnancy made me absolutely SURE that his birthday had been the day before and I had missed it. And in turn, my husband's ENTIRE FAMILY would soon know that I was suffering from extreme stupidity.

So I did what any self-respecting person would do and willed myself to forget what I had just realized. I sat through church quietly, praying for God to return my brains and didn't tell Ben what I had realized until about SIX hours later when we had driven back to Dallas and he was pestering me to call my father. I tried to make it into a big joke "Isn't this funny Ben?" but he just looked at me sideways and turned back to the basketball game, which made it pretty clear that this episode had surpassed pregnancy brain in a BIG way.

So joy to the third trimester and all it brings us this New Year.

My week 28 picture from Sunday night. I also had a doctor appointment this morning, although besides gaining an unheard of EIGHT pounds in four weeks it was fairly routine -- she called me a fatty (albeit nicely), suggested I eat more veggies and less pie, and sent me on my way.