And Two Tylenols Later, A Baby Was Born

Guy in Childbirth Class: So…do you think my wife could just take a couple Tylenol and be ok through labor?

I wanted to smack him. Partially because earlier he insisted his punctured spleen from a car accident a couple years ago never really hurt.

I have a pretty high pain tolerance.

Translation: I cry only a little when I slowly peel off a band aid.

Taking this off will be a doozy.

Real Translation: Because needles freak me out, I won’t let the dentist numb me when filling cavities.

I’m that person nearly passes out at blood draws, and afterwards I feel stupid because I didn’t even feel the needle.

So I decided to last as long as I could drug-free and then assess the drug situation because…

• I was a 9-pound (and however many ounces) baby.
• Boo was a 23-inch long baby.
• Radley was a 9-pound baby.
• Our baby measured in the 70th percentile.
• Except for her head. She’s in the 93rd percentile. Our baby has a big head.
• After Sunday’s false labor contractions for over 12 hours, I almost slammed my head into the wall to knock myself out just so I could get some rest.

My birth plan said…

1. Knock me out.
2. Wake me up after the baby arrives.

I wish that had been an option. It actually said…

1. Drugs: Maybe. Not Tylenol.

After laboring at home for 15-16 hours, I decided it was time to go to the hospital. When I got there, I was 7 centimeters dilated…and every nurse seemed concerned I was about to give birth in the hallway, so I asked for drugs that last an hour, hoping that was all I would need.

That resulted in me telling everyone that I made the staff red velvet cookies, and they should get one from the nurses station.

And after that sweet hour of mild relief with barely any more dilation, I asked for the epidural.

Kiefer: Are you sure you don’t want to try walking around first to see if it speeds things up?

Me: Kiefer…I’m done. I want…the epidural.

When you say someone’s name, they know you mean business.

When the anesthesiologist came in…

Anesthesiologist: How are you doing?

Me: I’m done.

Unfortunately for me, the baby hadn’t come out yet, so I wasn’t actually done.

One epidural and 3 hours later, I was 10 centimeters dilated with a bag of water still in tact. The midwife popped it, and we got the show on the road.

Then I noticed that I could see my legs and stuff in the reflection of the lamp light. I think that’s when my coochie snorcher decided it was done despite the baby still being inside.

After pushing for a bit, they turned down the epidural. After pushing for 4 hours with little progress and a baby suspected to be sunny side up, we discussed other options.

Scout finally arrived after nearly 29 hours of labor. The last 5-10 minutes was extremely unpleasant—I’ll leave it at that.

Her head was too big for my nether regions but not too big for this hat.

More Snow? Screw TP! We Need Booze!

You’ve probably heard about the crazy cold weather we’ve been experiencing this winter.

Because expected snowfall maps in inches have been done to death, this is the new snow map:

I live in the “15 cases” region. Since I’m pregnant, this map makes me a little sad. I haven’t found a hot chocolate equivalent map.

But we have ice cream and Girl Scout cookies, so we’ll be fine.

Up until this point, the snow we’ve gotten has been manageable. Sure, the kids haven’t had a full week of school since Thanksgiving, but inchwise, we haven’t gotten more than 6-8 inches of snow with each storm.

All of that changes today. I can no longer see the tires on Kiefer’s car. That’s how much we have right now, and it’s still coming down. How tall are Honda Accord tires?

What does that mean exactly?

It means bread, milk, and TP will be worth more than gold for the next few days.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Have you considered dressing like that for the remainder of the pregnancy?”—Omawarisan

I Spent New Year’s Eve Stalking Unicorns

On New Year’s Eve morning, I had no idea what to bring to the party Kiefer and I were going to. I thought of just making a good standby recipe, but…I have a reputation to uphold.

Imaginary Conversation with Friend: “Oh. You made Orange Dreamsicle cookies…again.”

Imaginary Thoughtsy: I know…I FAILED!

Then…I saw it.

A cookie so colorful, so glittery, so sprinkley—it was perfect!

Behold, the Unicorn Poop Cookie.

We used some star sprinkles. I wish I’d taken a closeup.

Here’s how you make a unicorn poop cookie:

1. Enlist the help of children. Unicorns like children.
2. Have the children call out, “Here unicorny-corny! I have treats!”
3. Feed the unicorn a lot of Fruity Pebble treats. A lot.
4. Give each child a bag.
5. Wait.
6. Wait some more.
7. Tell the unicorn to “Go potty!”
8. Instruct the children to walk behind the unicorn and bag the unicorn droppings.
9. Make sure the children wash their hands when they’re done.

Boo and Radley are now expert unicorn poop baggers if you’d like to borrow them. You’ll have to pay them, of course, since there are child labor laws. They would probably accept cookies as payment.

Oooooooor…you can whip up some sugar cookie dough (I added cherry vanilla flavoring to change it up)…

1. Separate it and dye it with neon food coloring. The boys and I wore sandwich bags on our hands to avoid coloring our skin.
2. Refrigerate the for 30 minutes or so.
3. Roll each color into a snake.
4. Twist the dough snakes together.
5. Wrap the dough in a circle.
6. Bake at 375 for about 8 minutes.
7. Decorate cooled cookies with confetti icing gel, glitter sprinkles, and gold star sprinkles.

You can do it however you want, but the first scenario has less clean up and involves a real unicorn. Just sayin’….

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “No, he did not call you fat, of course. He called you PHAT. That’s street for totally bitchin’, or so I’m told.”—Pegoleg

Not on Apple Dumpling Day

Dear Baby,

It’s fall. You know what that means?  It’s overstuff-yourself-with-yummy-dessert season.* This season begins on Halloween and runs until the last Christmas cookie is dipped in hot chocolate and devoured.

*Pumpkin pie is not included in this season in our house. In fact, even uttering the word “pumpkin” will get you a mouth full of soap.

Up until this point, I’ve tolerated your fruity cravings and indulged you with popsicles instead of ice cream. But now…now we need to talk.

While I appreciate that you’re no longer squishing my bladder, I’m asking you to occasionally stop squishing my stomach. If that means returning to bladder bouncing, so be it.

The other day work was selling warm, homemade apple dumplings. Warm. Homemade. As if that wasn’t enough, a scoop of vanilla ice cream graced the top and meltily trickled down the sides.

And I couldn’t finish it.

Lucky for you, no one saw the leftover goodness in my trashcan.

Thanksgiving is just over a week away. Step up your game. We have a reputation to uphold.

Sincerely,

Your Mama

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “My favorite response from IT is ‘I realize you’re young and tech savy, but my boss remembers when the technology of calculators could run the space missions; and I’m being recorded, so as much as I hate it, I need you to unplug the computer and plug it back in.’”—The Jessence

Me No Share Cookies…or Cupcakes…or Anything

When I first started dating the Cupcake Dangler, I had to come out of the blog-closet to him:

CD: How long have you been blogging for?

Thoughtsy: About 3 years.

CD: Wow! So I have a lot of reading to do.

Thoughtsy: Awww…. That’s so cute that you want to read it. But you can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

To soften the blow, I offered to let CD pick his name. That was a mistake.

CD: I’ve always liked the name “David.”

Thoughtsy: That’s…so…boring. (Author’s Note: No offense to people named “David.”)

CD: How about Lance?

Thoughtsy: Isn’t that a Backstreet Boy? I mean, NSync. You’re not allowed to pick your blog name anymore. You can’t be trusted.

How could I be with a guy who possibly secretly liked boy bands?

Then…he bought me this cupcake. (Translation: I snuck it into his grocery cart, and he pretended not to notice.)

A cookie and a cupcake!

Two desserts. In one dessert! I thought the tables had turned in his favor.

Then he suggested we split it. Split. It.

Which is pretty much the same thing as…

1. Calling me “fat.”
2. Questioning my dessert-eating ability.
3. Taking food right out of my mouth.

That’s when I first realized I made a horrible mistake. It was the beginning of the end for him.