In the hospital, we had quite a few interesting encounters.

If to merely flavor your taste buds with the situations the staff at our hospital regularly encounter, let me preface my story with a few quotables from the birth certificate lady with whom we were soon fast friends: We began the conversation like any other, as she brought the final form for us to sign regarding Malone's information. Jamin had filled it out (I performed a quick double take to make sure he hadn't attempted anything outlandish, or even misspelled his name) when she (Birth Certificate Lady) casually divulged that we wouldn't believe the names they encounter on a regular basis.
She said she usually asks the patient "Are you sure?" before signing off on the final form. She also keeps a book of all the odd names that slide past her desk...Oh to get my hands on that book. Here are just a few:

Camo
Yep. As in camoflauge. They even decked said baby out in hunting garb for its grand pictoral debut.

Itsa (first name) Miracle-Miracle (middle)
Yeah. Guess the parents were super excited regarding the birth of their child?

Whirl
Last name: Pool.

I've heard this one before, but the the BCL swore on its absolute and utmost truthfulness...Twins:
Orange Jello and Lemon Jello. Try pronouncing it in a different way, drawing out the J's...spelling exactly as shown.

And my personal ALL TIME favorite:
Drum roll please...

Jesus Popcorn.

Yes. It is true. Jesus (Pronounced just like our savior) Popcorn may be making his grand debut at your local grocery store, gas station pump, or library reading hour. Keep your eyes open, people. He's probably big brother to Lemon and Orange.

In the grand tradition of encounters a-la Jamin and Ashley with people I like to describe as socially challenged, awkward, or perhaps even complete borderline psychos, we have proven yet again, to withstand the tests of time in the special category of life as absolute magnets for said people. Go us.

It was nearly ten thirty on the night of Malone's birth, and I was exhausted from a long day of hard labor, pushing, sheer adrenaline and LOTS of visitors. I was ready to go to bed around two hours prior. But our scary co patients in the neighboring room, the ones directly behind my headboard, had other ideas on their blossoming agendas. I love how our magnetism placed them in the nearest vicinity possible. Precisely next door. There were nearly five booming male voices echoing from the other side of the wall. Screaming children, and multiple female octaves to add (not so gracefully) to the chaotic mix. ALL of them arguing. Laughing. Arguing some more...volatile emotions hanging thick in the air...I was bracing myself for a bullet to find its way into my room and implant itself into the opposite wall.

Never mind that visiting hours ended at 9. Never mind that this was not the local Best Western. Or gas station, for that matter. People were recovering. On the maternity ward. Blood and dignity were shed earlier that day and I needed my rest. I flipping earned it.

Jamin knocked on the wall, and to no avail, the noises barely ceased. If anything, they were amplified.

Visions of new babies, peaceful dreams, and triumphant labors should have been dancing in my head, ever so merrily to the tune of my latest dosage of those fabulous pain pills I mentioned earlier.

But there was no relief in the sound department.
I'd had enough forethought this time to pack a sound machine for our final baby-related hospital stay. It was turned all the way up on the volume dial. After what seemed like hours (though only minutes) Jamin ventured out to the nurses station.

"Ummm, I don't mean for this to sound snobby at all," he prefaced to the nurse sitting ever so expectantly at the station. "But the people next door to us think they are having a keg party."

Jamin returned, and we felt a bit smug. "That'll teach em" I stated peppily, and we waited quietly for the nurses voice to float over the (barely) muffled noises next door. What can I say? I'm a rule follower. A people pleaser. A thoughtful run-of-the-mill kinda gal. And I'm a bit miffed when people have a complete and total lack of consideration for others.

It did nothing...

So we turned off the sound machine and waited. At one point, literal accusations of "who's the baby's daddy" reached an all time climax and we waited for screams of murderous rage along with police officers and evacuations of innocent bystanders. {I'm not being fecicious. "Who's the baby's Daddy" was an actual statement which floated through the paper thin walls.}

"Sad" I commented through somewhat uncomfortably delirious giggles.

Jamin complained again.

The relentless noise (of course) continued.

Finally, after nearly an hour, our small, ever so petite nurse poked her head gingerly into the room.

"Did they quiet down?" she asked
"No," we replied. Can you not hear the riotous gun shots and rampant screams emitting from our wall? The eminent bloodshed mere moments away from taking place? Annie get your gun! What?

"Sorry, we're just really tired," I added.

"I've asked them three times to quiet down." she stated, and I could see the apprehension in her eyes.

It was around eleven STINKING thirty when the ghetto decided to leave room 417 and head to the next bar fight.

Jamin was ready to call security before it all ended. He nearly ventured next door, but I begged him not to, for fear they would watch the nurse the next time she took Malone to the nursery, and we may never see him again...I felt a little uhhh, endangered myself. These people and their outbursts were seriously frightening me. (Again...with the pain pills...) But they eventually quieted down. At my rest's expense.

We thought it was all over.

Around 12 the next day (I'm assuming they needed their beauty rest after the social they hosted next door) two women started screaming in sudden bouts of fits through the wall. "How many people are STAYING there?" I wondered. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when Jamin pounded on the wall ever so furiously.

"DON'T YOU BE KNOCKIN ON THIS WALL!" the woman screamed through the horribly insulated boundaries. "DON'T YOU BE KNOCKIN ON THIS WALL!!!"

At this point half my toothpaste ended up on the mirror as I guffawed. Jamin sputtered in his seat on the other side of the bathroom, and I left the sink to laugh in the room with him. I think she heard us. I hope she did. We showed her. We laughed. Right at her face. On the other side of the wall. Take that.

I seriously didn't know we needed security to stay at our local hospital. I should be upgraded to some exclusive famous person VIP suite during my next stay...Do they have those in Montgomery? Surely important people have procedures done here. If by important, I mean the local Pike Road Mayor, and by procedures, I mean ingrown toenail, then so be it. I'll take whatever special room he has. Thanks, Jackson Hospital. Apologies accepted. I'll be saving said upgrade for my (botched) boob job when I come back next year, since there will be no little Mills no. 4...

more {extremely exhausting} posts here:

bili blankets + baby boys

baby kimono cravings

the not so necessary...

1. I am officially 27 weeks pregnant. That's 6.5 months. 13 weeks until the big D-Date. All these : third trimester vs. weeks vs. months STILL baffle me, and I'm a bit of a veteran. Whatev. I feel like I just took that pregnancy test, and here I am, truckin along. Just call me Large Marge. I took a pic to document this monumental large bellied occasion because even though I HATE it I know I'll regret it later if I don't...quite a few of you had asked so here ya go. Unfurled in all my glory. {Well, if I wanted to show you ALL my glory I could always take a pic in an old bikini top, a-la white trash style, but I shall spare you. And your subsequently broken computer screens.}

2. Jamin and I ventured to lunch today while Aiden was at school. We went to a fancy shmancy "pinky place" as Jamin calls them: Nancy Patterson's Bistro. I waddled into the door with Emmy in arms while he parked the mini and when seated, I promptly asked for what any other parent would: a high chair.

"Oh, we don't have high chairs," the waitress replied. "You DON'T have high chairs?" I repeated slowly in disbelief. I then looked around and saw a crowd of people around 50 years older than me dressed to the hilt in their Boca Raton-ish zebra prints and sparkly shoes smattered with bright pink toenails and spray-ons. I was looking cute, but I wasn't trying too hard. Jeans. Cute top. Actually showered. This was beyond the point. Please tell me: WHO DOESN'T HAVE HIGH CHAIRS? This restaurant is a nice place smack dab in the middle of the downtown projects. A little fecicious of themselves not to offer high chairs. I wasn't raised solely in a Mickey Dee's, and I have actually eaten in some pretty nice places, and NEVER ONCE have I failed to receive a high chair when seated. This restaurant was a complete waste of time, and I am insulted by the discrimination I felt for bringing a babe in arms, being forced to HOLD her the entire time. Seriously? You people are losing major business with your snooty no high chair policy. Get over yourselves. I won't be going back, child or not. You're not that great.

3. I have griped to the ends of the earth regarding the changes the pregnant body does go through. Forget the fact that my waist will probably never return to its original shape, and my thighs now officially have globules of fat hanging off of them from years of prego induced cheetos consumption. I can now officially throw my girls over my shoulder so that my babes can ride piggy back and eat on the go. But let's talk about the not so common changes. I had a friend who's nose grew. Permanently. I knew a woman who sounded like a man after she gave birth to triplets. Her voice literally dropped three octaves and I thought she was a transvestite. So I can't complain, TOO much. But here's the deal. My hair was straight as a board. Then I had Aiden, and with each subsequent babe, an entirely new texture entered my life. Kinky hair. And it's not good beach hair kinky. It's curly in the back, straight in the front, botched perm circa 1985 kinky. In the mornings, I feel as if I can mount our king sized bed, throw on a miniskirt with high heels and give an extremely moving rendition of "What's Love Got to Do With It" Tina Turner Style-A private concert for my three adoring fans plus Chloe. Because my hair looks like that. I am so Tina Turner. Help. Please share any weird changes you experienced. I'm completely frustrated. I feel so alone!!!

...Have a great weekend!