No baby. {Yet.} I'm {still} here.

I am up to my eyeballs in this stuff, as preparing for a {currently} genderless child can prove to be a bit challenging... I've washed just enough, because let's face it: all they wear in the beginning are onesies and nightgowns anyway.

I don't parade around town with our newest arrival the day I am released from the hospital (as I like to follow the doctor's orders-heaven FORBID I do that...) so the smocked can wait. Obsessed with organizing I have been, as well as immersing myself in last minute details: the carseat, washing the swing cover, finding the boppy {yet to be located} registering at the hospital...making last minute arrangements...and all that other mind numbing stuff no one cares about unless you happen to be the expectant mother. Hurray!

We have an induction date set for Monday the 13th at 5 in the a.m. {woot woot} Here's to hoping I last that long. Our last ultrasound at 37 wks (I keep getting freebies because I was measuring a good 7 cm behind) - that's a whopping 7 weeks behind for you non baby experts out there (me) - it revealed that contrary to concerns, this baby is already a good 7lbs. 5 oz. For me, a small framed person, that lil tidbit of info means the baby is getting really LARGE. I realize it's not ten pounds or anything, but they nearly broke my tail bone getting Aiden out at 7.14. I'm not so worried about poundage as much as the size of this little m's head. We have that to think about, seeing as how large heads run in our fam: Aiden=115% Emmy=90%...and McDreamy is trying to avoid that one this go round. {Bless him and his little handsome doctor heart.}

So...induction here we come. {We would really appreciate your prayers!} Jamin and I have everything worked out, so I am sure the baby will now come around, oh... tonight or so. Things get a little tricky when you have other kids to think about...as I am sure some of you know. Our nurse, who delivered Aiden and Emmy and just so happens to be beyond awesome, has agreed to be there for our third, even though she's not even working that day. I have her all to myself! (They do all the work anyway) I also have Hair appointments squeezed in (so I have no root rot in the new baby pics despite the fact that my face looks like the elephant man) and a pedi (because we all know pedis are of the utmost importance when feet are in stirrups)...I mean everyone is totally looking at my toes. We even have a date night planned for Friday. Kid free. The last one for a while. Yeah. Now that I wrote that I can pretty much plan on having Malone in my arms tomorrow...

I'll admit it, I'm dying. Absolutely dying. Homestretch=absolute cliff hanger. This entire pregnancy I've been totally nonchalant, and now that little m is so close to arriving, I wake in the middle of the night wondering what on earth this baby is...anticipating its arrival...I guess the normal birthing stuff merely amped in the excitement of having no clue as to what he or she actually IS. I can pretty much count on this week DRAGGING by. I had a dream last night I gave birth in a beach chair on the beach. Only I was at the hospital. They had the epi in and everything. And there I was. My feet in stirrups, propped above the sand, watching the waves. Maybe a new birthing fad...

I've claimed girl from the beginning. Basing it on my womanly/motherly/female, Eve-like instincts. Jamin has, on the other hand, proclaimed little m to be a boy. For sheer argument's sake. {imagine that} And thus the battle has begun... I have more at stake than him. He guessed just to be difficult, and I proclaimed it was my womanhood driving me to this prophecy. As we both only want a healthy baby, it has become a battle to the finish. I guess we'll see. The suspense...IS KILLING ME. I want to be RIIIIIIIGHT. If he wins he's NOT allowed to rub it in my face. If I win, all is fair in love, birthing rights and double standards...

As most of you can imagine, the blog is about to slow to a snail's pace as far as posting goes, as I am merely trying to savor these last few days before we officially become a party of 5. So don't go anywhere. I'll be back. I'll let you know when no. 3 is here... I just won't be doing EIGHT separate posts a week...for a while...{Shew. I'm tired.}

Here are a few photos of our last days in retrospect:

We have this giant pool in our backyard. This heat is killing us, and it's big enough for all of us to clamber in and splash about. I guess you could say its borderline white trash in the above ground category, but its the perfect size for the kids. Check out my lil swimsuit model...

Jamin climbed in with them the other day. I think he enjoyed it as much as they did.

Just a little observation: I think Jamin may be possessed in this photo. Jury's still out...

In other news, Emmy had her first trim last week, and Aiden got his growth a little under control. Trademark surfer dude. It was time for Emerson. I hated to do it, but her hair looks much better now... less scraggly and thicker. She was borderline mullet status, and I had to prevent anything less than fabulous as far as she is concerned. Bows are of the utmost importance in outfit coordination, and her hair must be in top condition. She was a little angel as soon as our stylist handed her a lollipop...

Potential meltdown crisis averted. Hair saved in an envelope to be filed away in the baby book I never write in. At least it's dated. Everyone=happy.

We had a great time at my parent's house for the fourth. Aunt CiCi came down from Chattanooga and brought {as she usually does} a plethora of goodies for the kids. They absolutely adore her. We looked on from the garage in broad daylight while she lit some daytime-kid- appropriate fireworks she purchased just for them. (I winced, hoping they wouldn't explode in her face cause I'm jumpy like that) She is so thoughtful when it comes to her niece and nephew. She wins the cool Aunt award for sure.

Aiden was totally stoked about the parachute man CiCi brought. Right up his alley.

My mom with Emerson.

Later that night, we lit some more. Little Miss curious was afraid of nothing.

My dad giving Emerson her first sparkler...

Daddy helping Emmy with her sparkler...

 There are about a thousand reasons as to why giving an 18 month old a sparkler could be a horrible idea. This would be one of them. {No face burns occurred in the capture of this classic photo-I do believe it to be frame worthy, however.}

And last but certainly not least, in the grand tradition of our Swiss Family Robinson wildlife experiences, we now have a caterpillar infestation {in our pecan tree} located in our back yard. I felt it necessary to document said infestation as it is of plague-like proportions. Classic Mills status. Nothing less will do for us. Strange black things were falling from above, and then we realized they were giant, fat fuzzy caterpillars and quickly took cover. Some of them fell inside the doorway every time we opened the back door. I captured as many as I could and we relocated them to a safer place. Far far away from our back yard. Aiden was quite relieved we didn't torch them. I was quite relieved I didn't step on one. Those things were big and juicy. Gross.

Finally: I've been meaning to do this for a while. For your entertainment...a compellation of Emmy's best bootay dance moves: 2009. Try and keep an eye on her if you aren't too distracted by Aiden's spaz/interpretive/break dance tribute to MJ himself...classic.

I thought the track we put it to only appropriate : Props to Jamin for his mad production skills...documentation for future embarrassment at its absolute finest.

Warning: Not for the faint of heart. Birthing stories ahead. 

Revision: I went back and decided this entry was way too long, as would be the comments. SO I'm sticking to the questions portion...you'll see what I mean if you haven't been here yet...

What is it about women and their grand process of trading birthing stories? Like kindergartners from the 80’s passing out Garbage Pail Kid cards, a group of women in the room triggered by the presence of one prego always leads to something within that spectrum. And we all love it. Even if it IS way TMI. War veterans with field stories. We might as well break out the measurements for the tear / episiotomy / c-section factor. Bigger scar =better the victim. Because let’s face it. Once you’ve birthed a human from your actual body, it really feels like you can do anything.

I’ve officially begun the pregnancy ritual I execute every time before the big B-day. I’ve started watching TLC . My lineup: A Baby Story. Mental. Preparation. {While I was at it, I threw in “I didn’t know I was pregnant” on the DVR just for kicks. Hilarious.}

I won’t lie. Even though I’ve already done this thing twice, it’s the daunting possibilities of the unknown that get me. Every. Single. Time. So into the world of real live births, I have been sucked. Some of these episodes are a real snooze fest. I think ABS really needs to broaden their horizons for some true baby mama drama down south. (did you know they only film in the NY/NJ area?) Hot water and biting on sticks…while someone runs around in the background screaming she knows nothin’ bout birthin babies…that’s how we roll down here. Ratings, people. Ratings.

 My current faves a-la awkward  world:

The Idealist:

Expecting her first child, she managed to work out every single day. She bragged…as did her husband. He said he was glad she hadn’t gained much weight. I mean really? “And it did nothing for you,” I spoke a bit too excitedly as I caught a shot of her flopping butt in hot pants. Mrs. I-have-it-all-figured-out planned to give birth at home in her bathtub (bwaaaaa) and ended up freaking out and driving to the hospital. She started begging for an epidural at 2 cm. “Uh, you have eight to go sweetie…” I guffawed through my mouthful of double stuffs on the couch.  It’s fine to want the epidural, but try to hold off on the ridiculous writhing and screaming when I’m watching you on the teli. Downing my glass of milk to wash down the double stuffs I opted to eat. RATHER than working out. Sitting pretty at 2. Someone shove a tranquilizer and a reality check down the chick’s throat, already.

The Traumatizers:

Coming in at a close second. This blended family basically brought in all four children in to watch the birthing process. The oldest was nine, the youngest 18 months. Seriously? Scar your children for life much? The best part is, Mommy dearest freaked out WITH her epidural in the end.  And midwife Janice went all psycho militant on the kids, telling them to shut it since mommy was having a baby. Uhhh, your children are WATCHING, because you thought a staged birth would be a swell idea/learning experience. Let’s add screaming to the mix of bloody hoo-has and massive needle action. Props to you, mother of the year. That’s just terrifying…I don’t care how old you are. Note: The kids ran out of the room.

So here we go. I want to hear your birth day stories.

{I do have one request…please use your best judgement and leave out any truly near death experiences. I have a strong stomach, but those encounters are best left unsaid right now, since I’m getting ready to do this again.} I’ll try to keep mine short and sweet though as we all know, no words can really do the experience justice…cut and paste my questions with your own answers they're in the comments section... Add anything you like. {Humor me.} It's war story time.

If you don’t have birthing stories of your own, feel free to share your thoughts on the process. I want to hear! Let the discussions begin!

 {I still hate you, Eve. } Now it’s your turn. GO.

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fun {etsy lust} finds

finito

where she stops...

p.s. the days are dwindling to enter your guess. Click the link to the left to play the baby game! I'll be closing down in just a few days...

THE question I think all pregnant women thoroughly dread from the casual passerby. I will, if I must, preface this brutally honest entry with the factoid that I do not always despise the “how are you doing” question. It can be really sweet of people to ask. But it can have different connotations depending on from where said question actually originates.

If it comes from my mom, or my doctor, it’s different from say, the random person I know has issues with being what most of us would refer to as “normal” in public.

The encounter usually goes a little something like this:

Oh look! She has a gigantic bowling ball protruding from her belly. And she looks like an evolving gorilla. The passerby doesn’t specifically say such things…but their eyes do, as they glance down at my bludgeoning top heavy body until they realize I’m looking right back at them and they now must cover with a question…Their eyes then make the socially appropriate jump back to mine. They then decide to top it all off with a classic: “how are you doing?” {Because this makes the obvious judgment behind their smug visage all okay…}

“Fine,” or “I’m here” I respond, with a half-spirited smile, hoping to end the conversation there. Short and sweet. I’m not a COMPLETE whiney butt. It’s when they press further with the conversation,  that I begin to feel my first twinge of annoyance. It usually goes with,  “well my wife got really large like you” or “I can’t believe you’re still here” or “your face looks ready” Or some other completely not okay and socially challenged statement at which point I really exhibit my stellar example of self control. Any halfwit would realize these are the unfair statements with total lack of a verbal filter. And I’m supposed to play the role of a traditional southern gal and smile ever so politely… when they just so happen to get me all kinds of riled up.

I have to continually comfort myself with the superficial acknowledgement that these people mean well. I know that. But let’s just face the facts. Sometimes, their true intentions are pretty obvious. Heaven forbid I over share.  I think the only reason they ask me, is so THEY can.

Let’s have a replay, shall we?  Of how the encounter WOULD go if I were in charge of the world and all things conversationally awkward. 

SRRPB: (socially retarded random passerby-I can successfully make this judgement based on previous encounters and obvious cues) How are you?

Me: {cutting them off at the pass} Well, Jamin is out of town, so I’ve been chasing these two little nightmares around for about five days now-Aiden-STOP stabbing Emerson with that fork!-I have severe anemia,  so I’m exhausted all the time. I have problems walking across a room without having to stop and pant heavily.  This is merely complicated by a sinus infection, bronchitis, a really bad sunburn a few days back since I was busy taking care of these two at the pool. Yeah…little blisters EVERYWHERE. Speaking of my back, it seriously aches, and I have severe round ligament pain since I never  finished breastfeeding Emerson before I was pregnant again.

Oh, you don’t know what this is? Sometimes I have problems walking and I think that I may need a wheelchair because it hurts so badly to take a step. Think knives in the groin. Stabbing. It brings tears to my eyes. The other morning I had to sit on a heating pad for TWO HOURS. The contractions have let up a bit, but if I’m really lucky, whenever I’m standing up, I may be thrown to my knees asking God for sheer mercy if this baby doesn’t decide to stick its foot through my hoo-ha while I’m shopping for apple juice at Walmart.

You think I look tired? Well, Emerson screamed for an hour and a half in the middle of the night and Aiden woke  at 6. And I’m supposed to feel like a bad mother for throwing a pop tart on the floor and letting them watch Madagascar  three times in a row so I can survive the day by stealing an extra ten minutes of blissful sleep. Which won’t ever happen because Aiden isn’t POTTY TRAINED, and still poops his pants at the magic hour of FIVE in the AM. No I don’t care to hear about your sister in law’s pregnancy experience, your own horrible birthing process, or your moms sister’s anemic friend who also has Chiari.

But I’m good. Great. STELLAR.

This too shall pass. All is fair in love and pregnancy…and I DO know it could always get worse. Just do me a huge favor and spare me these last few weeks in the special category of the perpetually socially challenged.

Thank you.

{I know you have all had your own experiences. Share away…}

More posts here: 

baby books

birdie sling beginnings

random shots

Aiden: {informatively whiney} I want my playroom back

Me: (SIGHING realizing this is one more visit in the gentle yet inevitable explanation of why we can no longer have a playroom...) It's the baby's room now. And you are so sweet to share with the new baby. Besides, you can play all over the house. You don't really need a playroom to play.

Aiden: I want to give the baby back to Jesus.

Me: {resisting a smile} Well, sweetie, there's kind of a no return policy on babies. And I already love it in my tummy. You will love it too when its here.

Aiden: Then I want a new house with a playroom.

Me: {A little disturbed at this point by his advanced bargaining techniques/outlook on life} Well, maybe you should just be thankful for this house. God gave it to us. Some little boys and girls don't even have houses. {On the other hand, some little boys are also forced to wear smocked after the age of five in their big rich people houses, so deal, kid}

Aiden: (pausing for a moment to take it all in...) If we keep it, I want the baby to be a girl baby.

Me: (stifling a laugh) If it's a girl baby, what do you want to name it?

Aiden: Ashley. Ashley Mills. (I must say, I'm flattered)

Me: And if its a boy?

Aiden: Budah.

WHAT???

*Time's running out to enter millswhoops3! DO IT. You know you want to. Check the link to the left. I close down the entries and your chance to adjust your guess by July 1. So happy guessing...

and just to update: I went to the doc on Wednesday and am already dilated to 1.5 cm. I was counting on my last four weeks. I'm in no rush. I know what it's like now to deal with more than one, where as I naively rushed the idea of Emerson arriving, I'm doing handstands with this one. I told Mcdreamy my contractions had slowed down, but he said I don't really need that jazz to dilate this time around. Baby no. 3 is simply baring down. {read: goodbye, cervix of steel. I'll be crossing the dining room to get my morning coffee when little m pops out and starts pulling its best dance moves on the cream carpet. I think I'd be more disturbed by the fact that the new kid dirtied up my carpet. I'll probably be induced anyway...Ah the unpredictable fun the business of birthin babies can be...}

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etsy lust

fathers day

the scream

I’m quite surprised I have yet to be apprehended by the local police.

For intoxicated driving.

“No, officer. I didn’t down a couple of margaritas before I ventured out this morning. I just…have two kids,” I would stammer to the curious lawman, shooting him a knowing smile and gesturing to the back where my two children would sit. Curiously perfect angels where they were screaming, clawing demons a mere two seconds prior.

That smile, he wouldn’t so much as return, as he would then ask me to exit the vehicle and walk a straight line. Because said curious lawman is the one person who pulled me over this fine hypothetical Monday morning, who probably doesn’t have kids.

Only I’m completely incapable of walking a straight line, and this unfortunate disability is complicated by my current condition of being nine months pregs. I would wobble as I attempted to follow the marked area. Much like a weebil.

I’m shaped like one.

He would then ask me to recite the ABC’s backwards. “Uhhhh I can sing them,” I would reply sheepishly with a not-so-enchanting smile. Let’s just face it. I find the whole ABC’s backwards bit a little beyond challenging for this mush we now refer to as a thought-processing brain. My song would then be complimented by the pee pee dance, as he would refuse to release me until he at least checked my credentials {and perhaps with child services} until my sorry excuses for vaginal muscles failed me, yet again.

Let’s just face it. Hauled down to the county jail. She DID urinate on herself in public. What grown adult pees their pants?

There, I would sit sadly behind bars beside a rather large woman named DaTilda, mourning the ideal of a squeaky clean record now tainted by ridiculously demanding children and kegel exercises gone awry.

It never fails. I get them loaded into the car, ready to go. Juice. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Toys. Individual plasma televisions, ipods, personal masseuses…and anything else I can think they could possibly ask for.

I’m doing my best to enforce a no whining rule while driving, but sometimes it’s worth steering haphazardly, and weaving dangerously to find the last and final fruit snack, just to SHUT THEM UP.

Me: driving down the interstate. The car ride is a mere ten minutes. I find myself handling the delicate balance of chauffer, bartender, snack server, lovey retriever, car bouncer, DJ…forget outlawing phones
amidst the local public. Or that vicious rumor that elderlies should no longer be allowed to drive…I think I should be banned from all things pertaining to potential vehicular mishaps.

It’s the same song and dance EVERY single TIME.

Crying.

Aiden: Hey, hey, Mommy. Baby dropped her pacie! Baby dropped it. Will you get it, Mommy?

And of course, at first, I try the ignore-it-and-keep-driving approach. “Stay strong. They’ll learn,” I recite, as I turn up the radio... “Don’t make eye contact with the natives. They grow restless when you do that…”

Ten seconds later I find myself swerving a little as I at least attempt a glance at the floorboard to locate said pacie. Perhaps…I…can reach….

…incessant screaming driving me insane…

Aiden: I want a snaaaacccckkkk!!! Baby pooped her pants! Ew baby! I think I’m going to have to throw up now.

Me: Seriously kid? We’re almost there. (still reaching…now giving up…It’s almost like Aiden saw I was available, and decided to put in his own personal order while I was at it. )

Aiden: A frrruuuuiiiiittttt snaaaaaaacccckkkkkkk!

Me: We’re aaaaallllmooooosssssst there!

More crying. Now from Aiden, harmonizing oh so beautifully with Emerson. I think they practice while I’m asleep at night. At least they’re not tone deaf like their father.

Aiden: I dropped my toy!

Baby dropped her lovie!

I want my car!

I dropped my juice!

I waaaannnnt a snnnaaaaaaaaccckkkkk!

Me: We’re ALMOST THERE! (More haphazard weaving as I experience a simultaneous voice and blood pressure rise.) I attempt to grasp something from my bag to entertain them.

Pause: Bag=My ever growing plethora of accumulated crap, and if I happen to read one more “helpful” Martha Stewart article regarding the wonderful world of organized diaper bags I may have to mail her mine
with a pile of DIARRHEA diapers in it…

Me: STOP screaming guys. PLEASE. Mommy is TRYING to DRIVE!

Brief (shocked) silence.

Aiden: Nooooo! A fruit snack!

Emerson: Screaming.

Relentless-high-pitched-nightmarish-claw-my-eyeballs-out-and-chunk-them–at-her-screaming…

Me:
Honk.
Swerve.
Fishtail.
Donut.
Near-collision-with-a-semi-ending-in-not-so-pretty-hand-signal-altercations.

Aiden: Why did that man do that, mommy? What does that mean?

Me: Now panting breathlessly. Shaking. Turning up the radio yet again to drown out the horrid screams. (You would think I had withheld food for a good 48 hours and then slapped both of them. Repeatedly.)

Sigh.

I already have two little crazies. What’s one more? I’ll probably end up in the loony bin before they pull me over for a DUI anyway...such is the life of a contraceptively-challenged woman.

I finally embrace the inevitable and start screaming with them.

All the way to our final destination’s parking lot…

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sassafras