This will not be a happy bunny cheerful post, because I'm all out of sunshine and rainbows, and really just want to go curl up in a corner somewhere until everything is over.   You've been warned.

Still no baby, and I am really freaking miserable.  I hurt, and my legs are knotted from the back of my buttocks to my ankles, and swollen on top of it.  Baby is stalled right now, and because of all the debates about my due date, nothing is going to happen.  In the meantime, I can't go back to work, because my legs and feet are so swollen and painful that I can't stand or walk around for long periods of time.  I'm going to try an Epsom Salts bath today (if I can find my Epsoms) and see if I can get some of the fluid retention out.

Had to go to U of L last night to be checked, and I wasn't exactly thrilled.  While not as bad as Natalie, they passed me off to a couple of residents who pretty much irritated me more than anything else.  They also tried to give me drugs immediately, as though that was a necessity- because I said I'd had a bit of a headache and nausea/queasiness all day.  One of the drugs they were going to give me was Zofran, and the other I want to say was Dilauid?  The Zofran was for nausea, the D-Whatever was for the headache.  I refused both and I think they were surprised.  What part of- I don't take anything that isn't absolutely necessary do they not get?

Irony- my back is spasming periodically from the combination of weight, stress and contractions.  The nurse said "we can give you some Flexiril- that will help with the back pain."  I just shook my head and wanted to laugh.  The baby's heart rate kept dropping at random from 130s to low hundreds, and they told me that's normal.  Scary as hell however, to hear a nice steady rolling rhythm, that all of a sudden stutters and drops.

On top of that, the BF has been an ass for the last few days.  Everyone has told him he is being a sulky, broody, pouting PITA and he just insists that he is NOT!  *insert foot stomp here*  I am out of patience or tolerance.  He doesn't understand that he makes me tense, angry and nervous with his damn hovering and pushiness and snapping at my kids (which if he doesn't leave them the fuck alone for the next few days, I am going to kick his ass).  My friend (TSP) who has been staying with me so I'm not just curled in a ball on the couch crying- she makes me happy and keeps me laughing.  She plays with me and lets me do my thing.  She's kinda like Sarah, lite.

But she's not Sarah, and honestly- I wish I was in NY right now with Sarah, Queen Mother of Ta-Tas instead.  Because she's awesome, and gets me, and understands that the whole "I am internalizing X amount of pain and covering it up with humor, hyperactivity and snarky goodness- please either participate or go nap in a corner" mindset I have in the last stages of this annoying bitch of a thing called pregnancy.  TSP gets that, but Sarah has the added advantage of fifteen years of dealing with me at my absolute worst. 

If this baby doesn't get moving soon, I'm going to simply crawl in the closet and wait for Sarah to be able to come down.  I think I need the closest thing to a real family I have left.  I'm depressed, frustrated, in discomfort pretty much constantly- and I just need it all to stop.

Adventures in Baby-Hunting

So far, I have:

• had about a million contractions, that won't get consistent.
• slugged down a couple gallons of raspberry tea (thank goodness it's delicious) and double that amount of water.
• traumatized my friend the Sober Psycho by making her go to the mall and try on girly clothes.
• made a Silence of the Lambs reference that knocked TSP out of the chair and onto the floor in spasms of laughter
• scrubbed the bathroom floor. You could eat off my baseboards in there.
• walked a couple miles or ten.
• realized the BF is going to be completely screwed.  I'm not even in full Snarky Bitch mode yet and he's already showing signs of trauma.
• started sneezing like no one's business.

That's been my day so far.

The Top 5 Things I Know About Drug-Free Labor....

So, for Mommies to Be who are possibly freaking out about labor- here's a few things that you can pretty much expect if you go the no-drugs route that I prefer.

1. It hurts. Yep, they tell you the truth about that. Intense, biting, wringing waves of pain that get closer together as the big moment arrives. You can fight them, and wear yourself out into a screaming, moaning crying mess. You can breathe through them and end up spitting out curses in little puffs. You can Zen through them and chew your lips bloody. But they will NOT kill you, believe it or not. I personally prefer a combination of breathing and Zen that may or may not resemble a muttered mantra of "Ihateyouyousorrysonuvabitchandi'msharpeningthefilletknifewhenigethomejustforyou." Especially if the XY donator is patting my hand and trying to be helpful.

2. Your body will want you to MOVE. I mean that. The worst thing that you can do is ignore those demands- if you feel like you should be curled up in a fetal ball in the corner or bent sideways and backwards over a chair- there's probably a really good reason. Walking, swaying, rocking, bouncing, squatting, crouching, rolling, stretching- all of these things are the body telling you "hey, we need some gravity over here on the left!" or "cramps at two o-clock, take evasive action!" Instincts are awesome- and really, who the hell cares if you look silly while in labor? You're pushing a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon- there's no graceful way to weather that particular storm.

3. The shower may be your best friend. I almost lived in the shower during my last labor. I may live in it during this one. Water is innately soothing and incredibly comforting, and it helped me deal with feeling like there were small spikes being driven into my spine at regular intervals. If you can get into the shower- do it. Make a labor partner come in and chat with you while you shower. Bring aromatherapy soap. Have someone wash your hair. Enjoy the little bits of relief you can get, when you get them.

4. Labor is UNcomfortable, so make yourself as comfortable as possible.  Fluorescent lights (overhead lights in general) hurt my eyes and head, so I turned on all the little side lamps and turned off the overheads.  Hospital gowns give me the shuddering skeevies, so I buy myself something comfy specifically for labor- blood will come right out with Ivory soap and cold water.  And awesome socks, because awesome socks are love.  Heating pads or hot water bottles, foot massages or ice packs- whatever works for you- do it.  Listen to your music or watch a movie that makes you laugh.  And if ANYONE in the room makes you uncomfortable or unhappy, kick their ass out.  I don't care if it's your husband- if he's being a dick, toss him.  Mom being a pain? Boot her.  The person who is engaged in pushing a St. Berhard through the cat door is the ruling monarch of that room- so enjoy being the Queen Bitch.

5. Beware the ring of fire.  This is the point where you start SCREAMING for relief- and it's too late, because that awesome little person that you're about to fall in love with (after you want to kill them) is making his final descent.  Throw on some Johnny Cash and go along for the ride- you're committed at this point and there's no going back.  No one ever thinks to warn us about this- and they SHOULD.  Because trust me, that last push to get that kid out of you and into the world is the absolute hardest part of labor.  It's also the most rewarding, so embrace it whole-heartedly, and go for the gold.

You've got this, Champ!

Your Due Date is When?

So, here I am in the homestretch of pregnancy, and I've decided something- my doctor likes to screw with my head, just for fun.  I've had 4 or 5 due dates now.  And none of them are really accurate.  So my BEST guess is that sometime between Halloween and Christmas, the Alienbaby will make his appearance.  Well, screw guessing.  I'm taking action.

You see, my best friend is possibly available for emergency haul-ass-down-and-save-me-from-committing-murder the second weekend in November. Which means I'm going to pull out the raspberry tea, the bumpy dirt roads, and the walk-like-a-camel stops and do my best to go into labor then.  Because honestly- there is no one I love more in this world that The Queen Mother of Ta-Tas, and she is possibly the only person in the delivery room I won't want to kill.  And she'll help me smuggle coffee past the nurses.  See why I love her?

Also- I am tired of being pregnant.  To be fair, I was tired of being pregnant approximately three days in, but now I'm really bone-tired of it.  Possibly the two jobs, school, sick kids (oh, yes, the kids had the running puke-and-craps for a week, did I mention?), the itchies from hell, and the displaced ribs on my entire right side have something to do with that.  The insomnia isn't helping either.

Perhaps that's why I'm daydreaming about going into labor.  Unlike most preggos, I don't dread labor.  I love it.  I look forward to it.  Okay, yeah, it hurts.  So does stubbing my toe or falling down the stairs eleventybillion times while trying to do laundry.  Or getting thrown off a horse- and I've done that  A LOT.  But- and here's the great thing- labor hurts only until they hand you the scrunched up little demon you just pushed out.  And once the intial 10 fingers, 10 toes, proper equipment, no tail checklist is done- there's this rush like nothing else.  Because that's YOUR demon, and he's all in one piece, with no missing or spare parts, and you can relax.  And once you pop into the shower (ignore the bloodbath, it's normal), toss on an industrial sized maxi ad and some clean jammies, the world pretty much settles back onto it's normal axis, and you can get on with being a mommy. 

Except now you have rogue milk cannons attached to your chest.  And those are a WHOLE different ball game.

Things I Want to Say- the family edition.

I love my family like the Alienbaby loves applesauce.  They are quirky, bizarre, charming, and utterly mad, but I adore them.  That aside, there's a list of things three and a quarter miles long I often think, and seldom say.  But oh boy, do I want to...

1. First- what is with the drunken elephant stomp?  There are three culprits for this one- the BF, the Daredevil, and Gollum.  When all three of them are in residence, it sounds like feeding time in the big top.  I love them, but occasionally, I feel like I have their shoeprints on the inside of my eyelids.  Haven't you guys ever heard of "walk softly and carry a big stick?"

2. The Battle of the Tea.  Everyone in this household drinks iced tea (the SWEET kind, of course) like it's one of the necessities of life.  Unfortunately, there are arguments on how to make said tea.  The Ex makes the best, hands down- brewed, steeped for 20 minutes, 1 full cup of sugar, and stirred (counter clockwise) for exactly 30 seconds, with a metal spoon.  We all agree on this- and yet there is a daily fight over how to make the tea (and who needs to do it).  Can't we all just agree to adopt the Ex's method and make the tea whenever it gets low?

3. Why do I have no underwear?  I'm the only girl in the house.  We wash a dozen loads of laundry a week, and I fold dozens of pairs of boy undies in all shapes, colors, patterns and sizes.  Unless one of you guys has a secret fetish for wearing my granny panties or we have fairies who only steal ladies' undergarments, there is no excuse for me to constantly scramble around looking for my panties.  May I PLEASE have them back?

4. Drama is for stage shows.  Granted, my life is pretty crazy, but I'm trying to find the humor in it.  It makes me sad and worried when the only things I ever hear are how bad things are.  I know things are tough all over, but please smile and try to say something positive every once in a while- otherwise I might have to shove a bar of sunshine up your rump. :)  It's for your own good.

5.  I love you guys like I love sunshine, kittens, rainbows and shiny things.  I don't tell you that enough, and I'm sure sometimes you think I am the ogre in the closet because I'm always so damn blunt and hardheaded about things that I have strong opinions on, but I do love you.

PSA for everyone: Making Your Bed

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, ever since we (finally) got a bedframe and got the bed up off the floor. 

Nothing compares to a good bed. 

I don't mean a top of the line mattress or a fancy headboard.  I mean a bed that is a retreat from everything else in the world, a comfortable, safe, warm place to curl up in.  I can't remember where I heard/read/saw this, but I remember absorbing the information that people who take the time to make their bed (and room) a sanctuary report feeling more productive, sleeping better (even on fewer hours of sleep) and having less stress.  As a Mommy who works all the time, I value all those things.

The BF and I recently splurged on really nice sheets, pillows, and a new comforter set.  Between that and not killing myself trying to clamber up and down 20million times a night from the floor, I am amazed at how much better and more rested we both feel, and how different our day-to-day life is.  For instance- now I make the bed.

I love making the bed.  The ritual of shaking out the sheets, smoothing them into place, fluffing the pillows and comforter and turning everything back makes me smile.  Seeing my bed made up with the throw pillows in place and the covers smooth makes me feel accomplished.  And it keeps the sand and grit from the hardwood floors OFF my sheets- amazing. 

My bed is the place everyone congregates.  The kids come in to snuggle or watch TV with me, the BF and I do our homework curled up on the bed with our laptops.  Friends come in and plop down cross-legged to talk, and if we had a cat, he'd be curled up right in the center.  It's a safe place- it's impossible to argue or fuss when you're snuggled into fluffiness.  And sliding into bed after a long day at work on good, smooth, soft sheets is a luxury that can't be denied.

No one should go without good sheets.  I don't care if you've slept on sandpaper over a bed of nails for your whole life- you deserve great sheets.  The higher the thread count the better, and cotton is never wrong.  You can keep the silk and flannel and fleece and satin- my money is always on plain old cotton, that just gets softer in the wash.  They're not expensive, overall- a trip to TJ Maxx or some place similar will net you a really nice set of 3-400 thread count sheets for between 20-30 bucks.  And they are worth it.  So are good pillows, and a nice comforter.  And the best investment in the world for a Mommy (or anyone else) is a waterproof mattress pad with a quilted top.  Junior spills his water on your bed?  No problem- strip it down, toss it in the wash and dry it, and you don't have to sleep in a wet spot for so much as an hour.  (It works on vomit and pee too- and we all know how often that happens with kids.)

Mommies- you deserve nice things too.  Buy yourself some nice sheets.  Tell Hubby to bring you home the comforter set you want (ours was another TJMaxx find- $70 for comforter, shams, dust ruffle and three toss pillows- and it's reversible, machine washable cotton in a really great pattern) for your birthday.  Take a moment each day to make your bed- and trust me when I say that at the end of the day, when you come back to it after the screaming, crying, schlepping, lifting and hauling that is daily life with kids, families and careers- you will thank yourself.  Because there in your room is a clean, clear island of peace that says "Hi there!  Come snuggle."

Everyone needs the snuggles.  Go get them. :)

Oh, Boobies.

I woke up this morning with what certainly feels like a case of mastitis/milk fever.  I'm familiar with the process, but I've never had it BEFORE the babies arrived.  I'm due at the end of November, so with about 8 weeks to go, I didn't expect to deal with the engorged, painful, leaking boobs yet.  I have hot, painful lumps on the right breast, and a feeling of general flu-like achiness and fever. 

So, I'm drinking hot herbal tea, have hot compresses and Tylenol on board, and I'm sitting around topless expressing milk.  It's a shame there's no hungry babies around- I seem to have PLENTY to go around.

Speaking of hungry babies- Alienbaby is getting huge.  This means that Mommy eats everything in sight- double bacon cheeseburgers from Wendy's have been a favorite lately.  Also, jalapeno cornbread with applesauce, chips and salsa, chips and applesauce, cheesecake, corndogs with applesauce, applesauce, peanut butter bread with apples, cheese with apples/applesauce, spaghetti, bread and butter, steak, baked potatoes, mashed potatoes with cheese and garlic toast, applesauce, and oh, yes, applesauce.

I don't, as a general rule, eat a quart of applesauce every two days, or even eat apples very often.  Apparently, I'm giving birth to the carnivorous Irish reincarnation of Johnny Appleseed. 

Baked Goods and Regrets

Amazingly enough, I have the equivalent of a day off- no night shift, no school, no day shift.  I don't go back to work until 5pm tomorrow.  So I went and grabbed some groceries, and started baking.  One breakfast tart, two pans of brownies and a batch of cookies (plus dinner) later, I'm wiped out.  I got the boys bathed and bedded down, packed up the supplies and tidied up the kitchen and sat down with my cup of decaf tea to enjoy the peace and quiet of a house devoid of adult males.

Jasmine, the big red hound, let me know that the neighbors had company.  I went out and fed her some roast beast, and spent a few minutes scratching her adoring face.  I can feel the swollen, hard lumps of the lymphoma that spells the end of her life in just a short week, when the pain meds from the vet run out and we make her final appointment with the vet.  I'm not a dog person, but I will miss my girl.  She's unfailingly loving, impossibly loyal, and has been security and protection for my boys for years.  She's eaten concrete blocks and chewed through chains and wooden railings, and until a week ago, she had never had so much as a cold.  In another week, one more piece of my little world will be gone.  We're loving and spoiiling her rotten these last few days, knowing that letting her go now is so much kinder than letting her suffer through months of slow dying.

Nine months ago today, another little piece of my world vanished out from under me.  I can always calculate that loss down to the day- unlike Jasmine, there's no peace to be made there.  Three days after Christmas, my horse disappeared from my life.  I lost a huge chunk of my heart and soul, and a huge chunk of my family, all in one go.  Some things just cut too deeply to ever heal.  For me, this is one of them.

We're a family that just has animals- lizards in the bedroom, a dog in the yard, usually a cat or two prowling around (whether they are ours or not).  The squirrels know we're a soft touch, and this afternoon a chipmunk from under the holly bush came and sat on my sock.  We love them in a practical way, for the most part, and understand that animals are pets, and won't be there forever.  But every once in a while, one of them gets so deep under our skins that we can't imagine life without them.

Our home won't be the same without our sweet red pound puppy.  It won't be as safe, or as secure, without her hell-hound alarms and constant begging for attention.  My life will never be the same without my spoiled little Arab.  Things will move along as they always do, but there will always be a little clock in the back of my mind- counting off the days, weeks, months and years.

With Jasmine, I have the closure of knowing that she will be beyond pain, waiting in whatever afterlife dogs have, chasing rabbits and rolling in the sunny grass.  With Luke- I'll never know what happened.  Wherever you are, my boy- I miss you.  I'd give anything to have you home.

Reality Checks

You know the phrase "Don't let your mouth write checks your butt can't cash?"

I'm getting a hefty dose of reality checks lately.  I've always been a pretty capable person- I work hard, I play hard, and I usually can muscle my way through anything, be it long hours, pain, or just plain fear.  The last couple weeks- not so much.

Granted, I piled a lot on my plate.  I bought a car, which gave me an extra $400 a month in bills for the next three months.  I volunteered to pick up extra shifts and fill in gaps at work where we have lost people- so in any given week I may pull four carryout, two or three host, and two or three server shifts.  And I am roughly 30 weeks pregnant, with three kids in school already, going to school myself and I have a house full of things that need done.  All of this has combined to create a perfect storm.  So I'm giving myself one post to vent and put myself in perspective.

• I AM NOT SUPERMOM.  I need to remind myself of this.  I need to ask for help, and be gracious when I get it.
• Hard work can kill someone.  My cardiologist agrees with me on this, and has prescribed less caffeine and more sleep.  Taking his advice would be a good thing- which means stop volunteering for 15 extra hours a week and living off of tea and coffee.
• I have the best friends/family in the world.  Mark, Sarah, TopShot, Jolly Green Giant and Kittay- I am talking to you guys.  If I haven't told you this lately- you guys are awesome.
• Pain is the body's signal that something is wrong.  My left hip has had a pinched nerve for 10 days or so now, and I need to actually rest and allow my body to recuperate.  Tylenol is not a food group.
• Speaking of food- eating is a good thing.  The Alienbaby appreciates it.  So does the body that I constantly abuse with overwork.  So put down the teacup and pick up a cheeseburger. 
• God works in mysterious ways.  Remember how I said that I was so tightly strapped that I wouldn't be able to afford nursery furniture?  Unexpectedly, a friend from the past sent me a crib (with a crib set!) and rocker.  I am still gobsmacked, and incredibly grateful.  Alienbaby won't have to live in a laundry basket after all.
• SPEAK UP.  There are things that have been bothering me a lot lately, and as a result I have been a bit of a whiny bitch to everyone EXCEPT the people I needed to speak to.  Passive-aggressive conditioning at its best.  The people involved may not appreciate being told why I am annoyed with them, but it's better to say it directly to them than it is to let it build up and boil over like a volcano.  (Thank you, Ex-Husband, for pointing out that I was repeating EXACTLY the same pattern that caused problems in our marraige.)

So I'm making some changes.  I am going to continue working, and going to school, but I am also not going to keep trying to do everything.  Some things will just have to give.  I'm going to take better care of myself, and try to be more aware of the things I am doing that contribute to my overall stress level.  I'm restructuring my budget and priorities to save more money for the important things, and I'm going to try and make some me time.  Even if it's just going to the Y once a week to swim in the heated pool, I need a break from reality every once in a while.

Now, folks- remind me of this post when I start getting cranky, okay?

Full circles

Yesterday was my youngest's birthday.  Now officially eight, Mr.Man (AKA Gollum) ended his day the way he ended his first day out in the real world- curled up on top of Mom, snoring.

Holding him last night, I realized just how lucky I am to have this kid.  Although he can be bossy, manipulative, and has a mean streak that would make a rattlesnake hunt for cover, Mr.Man is in some ways the sweetest of my three boys.  He is the cuddler, and has always been the first one to jump up and volunteer to help me with anything.

Happy Birthday, baby.  I'm glad to have you.  I love you.  And I appreciate the cuddles.

Precioussss....

So, I promised to tell you something about Gollum, the youngest of my demons.

Gollum is 8, going on 21.  No, I mean that- don't leave any alcoholic beverages within his reach- he'll taste them.  And if he likes the taste, he may well bogart it.  Luckily, no one in my household drinks much, and we don't keep it in the house unless we're expecting company.

Gollum is on a possessive kick.  Instead of a ring to rule them all, his obsession is- Mommy.  I am now "his" mommy- no one else's.  The Alienbaby is "his" baby brother, and no one else (including the Alienbaby's own father) is allowed to have an opinion on the topic.  And he does mean no one- he'll push the other boys, the BF, or the dog out of my vicinity.  It's rather like having a pit bull with separation anxiety.  Of course, there's a reason for this, but having to reinforce kindergarten skills at this stage of the game is becoming tedious.

You see, we have massive changes coming.  In addition to the Alienbaby's upcoming arrival, Mommy and the BF are looking at moving out of the house we currently share with my ex-husband.  (Long story- suffice it to say that being best friends with your ex is awesome, but sometimes takes strange twists.)  This has thrown all of the demons for a loop, as they like the current status quo of having Mom, Dad, and a goofy adult male to try and run their games around.  More than the other two, Gollum is a bit panicked- because it's been decided that when we move into our new place, he is coming with us while Dr. Doom and Daredevil stay with Dad, and switch off weekly. 

We didn't come to this decision easily.  The Demons function pretty much as a unit, with Dr. Doom plotting, Daredevil executing, and Gollum running interference.  However, Gollum has become increasingly hostile and abusive towards his brothers in the last few months.  While Dr. Doom is always touted as the brilliant one, and Daredevil is firmly in the lead in athletics, Gollum is hitting his colt's years.  He is tall and thin for his age, with over-sized feet and hands that are too clumsy for his body.  As a result he has gotten pushed off to the side by his more accomplished siblings a LOT lately, and the resentment is eating him alive.  It makes him less than pleasant to live with.

So I have my own personal Gollum.  It's not all bad- he is very loving and affectionate and kind when he wants to be.  He's also devastatingly funny, in a dry, sarcastic way.  Now the trick is to get him to apply that loving kindness to everyone in the family, not just Mommy and the Alienbaby.

Any ideas?

I hope my guardian angel is doing tequila shots right now

Because they deserve them.  Today I nearly killed myself, most spectacularly.

Granted, the roads were very wet.  And I was accelerating outof standing water.  But I KNOW better than to gun the gas in those conditions, INTO a turn.  Yet I did it- and as my car spun into the curb once, then away twice (yes, 3 360 spins- across five lanes of traffic)- they only thing that popped into my head was "Oh HELL no, I do NOT have time for this."

There was no flash of my life before my eyes, no worry about would the baby and I be okay, no crying out to God.  I'm pretty sure he was already aware of what was going on, from the colorful cursing of whatever poor angel is assigned to riding herd on me.  Once I coasted into the parking lot across the street (for an automotive repair shop- THERE'S some funny for you)- I stopped long enough to be thankful I had dropped off the Daredevil and Gollum (my youngest- more on him later) approximately five minutes earlier at school.  Alienbaby kicked in protest at the tightened seatbelt (good little Kia, that belt grabbed me like I was a hot date on saturday night), and I doublechecked to make sure that none of the oncoming traffic had suffered collisions.  Miracle- no one had.  I didn't even get honked horns and fingers shoved out windows.  Kentucky folks are nice like that.

The scary thing is- I didn't even think about how close I had come to being roadkill.  I just pulled back out into traffic and puttered off (slowly, with my nerves a little jangled) to school.  I called Mark- because who else would I call that early in the morning but my insomniac friend- and gave him the short version.  By the time I did that, I was at school, and a few hours of staring blankly at the busy-work on my screen settled everything into a numb sort of blur.

Mommies (and anyone else out there)- check your tires.  Check your brakes.  And if you ever get a chance to meet your guardian angel- buy them a drink.  They deserve it.

The Definition of Epic

Do you know what the definition of "epic" is?

Getting up on a Saturday morning to the sounds of Bon Jovi rocking it out.  And when you stumble out to the kitchen, discovering Dr. Doom strutting his stuff in the kitchen, wearing yellow rubber gloves and scrubbing dishes.  WHILE headbanging and belting out classic 80s rock ballads at the top of his lungs.

The good Doctor then proceeded to scrub down the ENTIRE kitchen (without being nagged or even asked) to sparkly goodness.  And then he and the other two demons vanished for a while, and came home with newts.

Or salalmanders.  One or the other.  Small slimy lungless lizards who like wet places and are suspiciously cute.  And escape artists.  We currently have 3 in a makeshift habitat on the table.  And I'm not sure how many have escaped (apart from the three we still have contained), but I do know that the BF is TERRIFIED of them. 

I know this because at 10pm, he jumped up screaming "GET THAT THING OUT OF HERE!" like a girly-man, and doing the pee-pee dance while pointing at the lint-covered orange and black speckled cutie crawling on the baseboard.  YES, he demanded, in girly-man squeals, that his 7month pregnant girlfriend scoop up the slimy amphibian and carry it back to its watery prison.  And proceeded to examine the room like he was expecting to be attacked by hordes of soul-sucking alien newts. 


Yeah.  I'm totally going to tease him with Monty Python quotes for the rest of his natural-born life.

Aldi's, Baby Depot and Piggy Banks

So, since I am a Bad Mommy, I overextended myself and bought a car.  A used (not so gently) 2001 Kia Sportage SUV.  It's GOLD.  Like money.  Which is what it eats, apparently.  In an effort to keep it full of gas/oil/non-dry-rotted tires/battery (Like I said, not so gently used) I have been picking up various other waitresses and taking them to work, or taking them home after work.  They give me gas money, and we all arrive happy and on time.  (Mostly.  I usually end up being about an hour early.)

Well, yesterday, I forgot that I wasn't picking up the Pocket-Sized Pixie waitress, and left for my work shift two hours early.  Which gave me the perfect oppurtunity to do something I have been avoiding for the past six months- I went to the Baby Depot. 

Predictably, I hated 90% of what was there.  And I was confused by half of it (do people really use ergonomic baby bathtubs?  I just plunk mine in the sink, or into the shower with me).  However, then I found the glider rockers. I should probably explain something about me and gliders- I love gliders.  Swings, rockers, whatever.  They remind me of my great-grandfather's kitchen porch, and him gently gliding us back and forth as his huge hands played with my tiny ones over a brightly colored toy toaster.  So I sat down in a particularly squishy glider, with a complimentary copy of Baby Talk- and promptly fell asleep.  For at least 20 minutes.

The concerned saleslady who woke me up asked me if I was waiting on someone.  Embarrassed, I wiped drool off my cheek and rather sheepishly admitted that I might just be hiding from my house full of males.  I'm not sure who was more humiliated- me for drooling all over myself in a public venue, or the poor lady who then felt obligated to show me around the displays of cribs and strollers.  I think we were both relieved when I managed to escape.

Because honestly, I might be able to afford a crib when the Alienbaby is about 6 months old.  *shakes the piggy bank and listens to the lone "rainy day" penny rattle*  If I have a pile of money fall out of the sky, I might be able to buy a nice (although not so nice as the glider that sucked me in like a wormhole) rocker for nursing said Alienbaby.  The BF has been out of work for three weeks or so now, and even with picking up extra shifts and side jobs, Bad Mommy's financial status is somewhat short of "rolling in it."

Which brings me to Aldi's.  Not sure how many people have an Aldi's near them, but I like Aldi's, especially when I'm broker than broke.

I spent $44.40 and got:

10lbs of chicken leg quarters (awesome for grilling, stewing or baking)
10lbs of russet potatoes
Fresh carrots (1lb bag)
Fresh celery (1lb bag)
3lbs of apples
3lbs of bananas (possibly more, they were pre-bagged and HEAVY)
Giant flat of beef ramen for the demons to gnosh
2 big boxes of stuffing mix
2 big boxes of mashed potato flakes
bread (oat bran and honey- delicious)
milk
eggs
2lbs of cheese
a dozen cans of veggies (different types)
2 gorgeous huge potted mums, crimson and gold, about to bloom. Shouldn't have bought them, but I caught their spicy scent as I was headed towards the produce, and it made me feel- happy. So I spent the four bucks and bought them, because when I sit on the porch and smell them, I feel better. Feeling better is a priority for me right now.

That will get us through a week. I almost bought a giant bag of stir fry-style veggies for 3.99 (2+lbs) but opted to get fresh stuff instead. Aldi's almost always has really nice veggies and fruit really reasonable- they had BIG watermelons for 2.99 and pineapples for 1.50. I stayed away from the junk food, even though the Nutty Buddies were begging me to eat them. After paying my car payment, insurance, putting half a tank of gas in my car, giving BF gas money to go to his odd job, and buying groceries I have ten dollars to my name. But that's better than no money to my name, yes?

Happy Birthday, Mommy!!

I have another of those awful confessions- I hate Important Days.  Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc... go away.  Invariably, I wake up on an Important Day and immediately want to go back to bed.  I'm not full of good cheer and joy- I'm a cranky old bitch who wants to hide under the bed with your grandmother's incontinent cat.  I like Halloween, but that has more to do with my love all all things creepy and campy than any enjoyment of the party and carnival atmosphere.  This includes my own birthday.  If I could find a way to skip that day on the calendar, I would.  Wishing me a Happy anything is possibly grounds for divorce or murder.  Buying me gifts.. please don't.  I dislike presents.

The only exceptions to those rules would be the Demons.  Bless them.  They bought me a really silly card (with a cat on it!) and a charger for my iPod that would hook into my computer.

The only problem- I don't own an iPod.  I never have.  I have a small little MP3/Flash player called a Spark, and nothing about it is compatible with an iPod.  I adore it- it's about the size of a postage stamp and has basic controls that even I can figure out.  It also has no charger at the moment, but I'll sort it out.  Because my Demons thoughtfully included the receipt, so I can exchange the iPod accessory for the one I need.

So... "A" for effort, Demons.

Babies are easier

So I mentioned in a previous post that the BF has a man-cold. 

What I failed to mention was that he has had some version of this man-cold for better than a month.  Do you remember walking the floor with a colicky infant at 2am?  That was easy.  Exhausting, and somewhat aggravating when a particularly ear-splitting scream was let loose right next to your aching head, but easy.  At least when you compare it to the sniffling, sneezing, snoring, talking and whining in the sleep, thrashing night-time so-you-can't-rest joys of a man-cold.

After a few weeks of nagging begging, I finally insisted that the BF go to the doctor. Guess what? If you ignore a man-cold for long enough while working with fiberglass insulation,you will end up with a RAGING sinus infection.  Requiring not one, but FIVE medications.  One antibiotic, two corticosteroids, one cough syrup for night-time use and an antihistamine.  All of which have to be dosed out and bullied into the BF by yours truly.  Yes, I am using cookies as bribes.

Compared to this lovely cocktail, we have the Daredevil.  His recent forays into the land of skateboards have had some interesting results- namely a spectacular road rash that covers his left side from shoulder to hip.  I'm not even sure how he got it, but when he stumbled in covered in blood and dirt, my heart almost stopped.

"What happened?"
"I think I got goofy-footed."
Now, I know what goofy-footed means, but I'm not sure what being left-handed has to do with anything.  Instead, I focused on damage control.
"Is anything broken?"
"Nope, I just came in to get a towel."
With that, my bleeding, dirty child grabbed a towel and walked out.  Dumbfounded, I followed him out and watched as he proceeded to hose himself down with the hose, mop off the dirt, water and blood with the towel, and hop back on his skateboard to zoom away.

Oh, my babies.  You are so much easier before you grow up into men...

Before COFFEE?????

I have a research paper due this evening.  MOST of this paper is done- references, interviews, charts and all my sources and quotes have been pulled.  But the actual pulling of the strings into a nicely woven tapestry-not quite.  I mentioned the three kids and the job and the pregnancy and all that, right?

So, Mommy used her noggin, and set her alarm EXTRA early for a Sunday morning.  It's 8am, and I'm dragging my weary body out of bed, making my usual round of prayers to the porcelain gods (why is it that I feel FINE lying down, I stand up and turn into the chick from the Exorcist?), and booting up the faithful NetBook for a bit of composition.

This might be where I made my first mistake- I didn't LEAVE THE HOUSE.  For Mommies who are attempting to go to school and raise demons- McDonalds with WiFi is your best friend when projects are due.  They also have coffee.  And no children (or at least a play area to banish said children to).  Normally, on a Sunday morning everyone sleeps until at least 9.30am.  That gave me a little over an hour to finish the final tweaking on my paper and review it.  Not to brag- but I'm a dab hand at writing papers.  An hour was plenty of time.

But naturally, there was no hour.  When I crept from my bed at 8am, it was apparently the signal for everyone else in the house to wake up and make themselves known.  The children wanted to play XBox and/or watch cartoons at a deafening volume.  The boyfriend (who I haven't thought of a clever nickname for yet) has a man-cold, and had to come over and insist on my attention.  (Where DID I leave my cast iron skillet again?).  And of course,someone decided that early Sunday morning was the perfect time to want to buy the student violin I have had for sale since last week on CL.

Needless to say- my paper did not get written this morning. It got written during my afternoon shift at work, and typed up a few minutes ago.  I'm allowing my brain to cool down before I attempt to review it, for fear of missing something glaringly obvious.  Like profanity.  I'm sure profanity doesn't belong in a research paper.

Does it?

Confessions

First things first, I have to confess: I am the mommy that Good Mommies hate.

In a past life I was a SAHM to three adorable boys- collectively known as The Demons.  Then I was a single mom/part-time waitress/model/exotic dancer. All part of my charm, I assure you (and the necessity of feeding three small demons minus spousal or child support).  I survived those four years, thanks to the support of The Jolly Green Giant (my very beloved younger brother) and TheTopShot (my incredibly paranoid and beloved adopted brother/best friend) who helped keep The Demons in check. 

Now I'm that Mom that everyone loves to hate.  The one that hangs out on her front porch in the evenings with a glass of iced bourbon and a pack of Camels and a brood of kids that look like catalogue models gone wild.  The one who doesn't own a minivan or a bottle of hand sanitizer.  I'm the Mommy who lets her kids build skateboard ramps in the driveway and climb trees and fight it out like tigers in the backyard to settle sibling disputes- without pads or helmets.  I'm the Mommy you DON'T want in your playgroup, the one who calls her children Demons without reservation, and has a bad habit of cursing (out loud) when she stubs her toe while wrestling with those Demons.

My kids should be Demons, or at least that's what I've been told.  Somehow, they've managed to thrive, and I now have polite, well-mannered, funny, intelligent kids who eat their veggies and say yes ma'am and no sir.  They mow yards and get the Crazy Cat Lady's darlings out of the trees when they get stuck  They even do chores, every day, without complaining too much.  If they have a few quirks- well, blame their Bad Mommy.

Like my nine-year-old's (AKA Daredevil) hemorrhoids.  We went through this a few years back with my oldest son (AKA Doctor Doom). Apparently, my children deal with stress by getting piles. And starting fourth grade is stress for the Daredevil.  Which is how, at 8pm on a Thursday evening, I ended up at Walgreens trying to find the Tuck's pads.  Or at least some witch hazel. And an industrial-strength grade of PreparationH, because when you're nine and your bottom hurts every time you poop or sit down, you need the heavy artillery.  I may have also grabbed a package of Pinwheels, because chocolate and marshmallow smothered evil is the perfect bedtime snack for an overwrought Daredevil and his partners in destruction brothers.

At this point I should probably mention that I am also a server for a TexMex restaraunt and a full-time student.  On Thursdays I go to school until early afternoon, then come home and run like a mad chicken get the household chores squared away until I leave to work the evening shift.  And also, the whole 6ish months pregnant thing (which is blog post in and of itself.  Like I said- Bad Mommy).  So naturally, when I get to the checkout counter, the clerk eyeballs me and nods knowingly.  The joys of Southern towns pale whenever you realize that part of the Southern hospitality thing is the concern people shower down on every. little. personal. detail. of. your. life.

"Mhmm. When you due, honey?"
"End of November." Can you please just bag the damn butt cream?
"You're carrying so tiny!  You ain't dieting?"
"No, I just carry small." Please put the cream in the bag. Please. And the Tucks.
"I remember being pregnant.  You got the piles, don't ya?  This must be your first."

At this point, I should probably say that I have the tact of a bulldozer when I am A) tired B) concerned for my kids and C) hormonal.  What follows probably shouldn't have been said.

"It's my fourth.  A boy.  I've gained a healthy amount of wegiht, my uterus measures normal, the baby is healthy and my nine-year-old is currently at home crying because HIS hemorrhoids are hurting, so can you please tell me my total so I can go home, help him with his sitz bath, put his butt cream on, and get him to bed at a decent hour?  He has school tomorrow."

In retrospect, I probably could have been a nice Mommy and just smiled and nodded.  But thirty minutes later, while cuddling the Daredevil on the couch as he ate his cookies and assuring him that he would be just fine, I decided it was worth it.  I'm a Bad Mommy, but I'm good at it.