The Stitch

Elizabeth has arrived! Born on January 26th, at 12:30 am, weighing in at 5 pounds, 8 ounces, 19 inches long.

Long story short: I had a C-Section, and I'm trying to catch up on all the emails, so I'll update my journal as soon as we've settled into a bit of a routine, I'm feeling better, and I've got all my emails answered.

Everyone is home, happy and healthy. :-)

All of Brian's co-workers were jealous about what Brian was getting to go home to yesterday. (For those who forgot, he got to come home to trim Skye's smelly butt hairs.)

Why didn't I do it? Besides the fact that smelly butt hair makes me vomit, I'm also nine months pregnant and I happen to be Skye's favorite chew toy.

Skye has a VERY short list of people who are allowed anywhere near his hind quarters. I am not on that list. The vet is not on that list. In fact, the only person on that list is Brian. Which is why he always gets the honor of trimming Skye's smelly butt hairs.

Brian, the dog whisperer, and Skye, the most pathetic dog on earth. Doesn't he make you want to weep for him?

Yeah, well, don't feel TOO sorry for him. He got himself into this situation by knocking over the garbage can, dragging potato peels all over the house and eating half of them, then greedily sucking down discarded chicken skin and grease from the garbage bag. I think that would give ANYONE smelly butt issues.

Baby update: My doctor called yesterday and although my test results aren't fabulous, they aren't anything to worry about immediately. He's going to wait till Tuesday's appointment and see how things are progressing. If there are any indications that my body is ready for delivery, he might induce. I'll be 37 weeks by then.

Brian is obsessing over our bedroom ceiling. It bothers him because it has a ripple. I keep telling him that nobody is looking at our ceiling and talking about the ripple behind his back. I keep reminding him that "Done is GOOD" with regard to the bed/bath construction project.

I also give him two statements of wisdom passed down to me from my father:

"You can't see it from the road." and "You ain't buildin' a church."

I woke up this morning and my tongue felt like a lead brick in my mouth,. I wondered if tongues would swell in extreme cases of water retention, so I asked Brian,

"Hey, I *know* my tongue is coated with the most unimaginable sleep-slime right now, but could you just take a peek and tell me if it looks particularly swollen?"

I stuck out my tongue and Brian looked at me with that "yeah, honey-don't-ask-me-because-all-tongues-look-the-same-to-me" expression on his face.

I got up and did my usual morning routine, and after a few sips of water, my tongue felt smaller (and better), so I have to assume it's because I probably slept with my mouth open and drooled all night, causing my tongue to dry up like a salted slug.

At times like this, I can't help but wonder what the Hell Brian sees in me. Must be because I *don't* have smelly butt hair.

Peace, till next

Skye found out about the upcoming arrival of Elizabeth this morning, and in a fit of the nastiest sort of dog revenge, he pooped all over his butt fur to get back at me. He waited until Brian had left for work, then made the smelly announcement and waggled his butt around for me to see. I threw him outside and told him to go wipe. Instead of wiping, he stalked the neighbor children and their school bus with a stinky butt.

He's now out on the porch waiting for Brian to get home and clean him up. Poo makes me gag. A lot. (I know, I know. I better get used to stinky poo. My life will be filled with it once E-Beth comes home.)

Here is a letter Skye wrote to Brian after he found out about E-Beth:

Deer big furree man,

wut iz this garbij i heer abowt thu big yello hayr laydee iz gunna bryng hoam a baybee? that iz a bunsh of stoopid crapp. i doant want a stinkee
baybee in mi howse eeting mi toiz so doant bryng wun hoam oar elss i will haf too doo sumthink desspritt. yoo hav bin warrnd. doant mayk mee hayt yoo too. yool bee varee sorreee.

synd,
thu dawg hoo yoost too bee yoar frend

pee-ess: i thawt i wuz yoor baybee. itz nawt fayr thet thee stoopid yelo hayr laydee iz bringing hoam a stoopid yelo hayr baybee. baybeez are stynkee and thay mayk 2 much noyz. thay arnt az cyoot as i em. i thawt i wuz yoor baybee butt maybee i em not and that maykz mee varee varee sadd and cry-ink boohoohoo. yoo stynk. i hayt yoo. butt giv mee sum dawg bonz and sum krispee baykon and i wil luv yoo agen. evin if yoo bryng hoam a stoopid stynkee cry-ink baybee.

maybee.

it bettur bee reelee gud baykon.

Could THIS be the day? I have four appointments today. I get to bunch them all up and be over and done with them in one fell swoop. How awesome is that?

And the weather is junky, and I'm a chicken driver when the roads are snowy, so my handsome hubby is chauffering me around!

We start by dropping off the pee jug, donating blood to the Heather Kidney Death Fund, fundal height measurment, lecture about weight gain, non-stress test and ultrasound! WHEW!

Test results will be read tomorrow, and then Doc will either induce or torture us with another week of waiting!

Peace, 'til next

My whole life I have never had boobies. I'm not kidding when I say that before I got "knocked up" (as Brian likes to call it), I wore 31 AAA bras - and even they were kinda big on me.

In high school, my well-endowed sisters with their fancy-schmancy C-cup bras would pick on me.

Sisters: "Hey, BOY! Nice NUBBINS!"

Stick girl Heather would respond, ever-so eloquently, "Yeah, well at least I can run out to get the mail without them slapping me in the face . . . " And I would offer them a visual demonstration by slapping myself in the face: thwackthwackthwackthwackthwackthwack.

Then I would continue, "and I can do it WITHOUT a bra on" and I would run in place with my breasts not moving an inch. Mostly because I didn't have breasts. Then my lack of balance and gravity would kick in and I'd fall and smack my nose on a chair on the way down - sending my sisters into hysterical fits of laughter.

In my late twenties, this fabulous miracle was devloped: THE W-UNDER BRA. (altered the name to avoid any trouble)

I bought one in a big fat hurry - a nice thick super-luxury padded one. And it had no straps, which meant I could wear it and people would think I wasn't even wearing a bra - they would just know that I was naturally curvy, busty and oh-so GIRLY.

I was working as the editor for a local newspaper at the time, and I was all suited up - professional as could be. I had appointments all day, with politicians, school administrators, corporate entities - and I was feeling good.

I had W-UNDER BRA on my side.

Halfway through the day, I started noticing that people were actually looking at my chest. No, they were STARING at my chest. And I thought to myself, "Damn! This thing really works," and I stuck my chest out proudly for the world to see.

Toward the end of the day, I ran into the Gas n Go to buy myself a cool, refreshing beverage, and the counterboy, no surprise, was staring at my chest. But he was looking at it kinda funny. Like he was confused about world economics, or the state of the environment - or something really important. . . . .

I thought, "Huh. Must be he doesn't see very many busty women during the day." I thrust my magnificent chest out, and sauntered back to my car.

As I reached to shift the car into "D" (for "Dumbass"), I caught a quick glimpse of my chest.

My W-UNDER BRA had shifted. My strapless, magnificent, miracle-working W-UNDER bra had completely betrayed me, and one enormous padded breast was now located directly below my left armpit. The other massivley padded faux breast was located directly in the center of my rib cage. I had become a one-tit W-UNDER: A complete, absolute freak of nature.

I was horrified. I suddenly realized that the whole world had not been ogling my glorious, magnificent chest with any amount of breast envy, they were gawking at my deformed W-UNDER BOOBIES, W-UNDER-ing "what the hell is up with this chick's breasts?"

That was the day I gave up on ever having a lovely rack. Once I accepted my fate, I started to appreciate them. . . . .

Until now. Now that I have boobies.

As I slip on my UNpadded bras, I often catch Brian staring at me.

"What are you lookin' at?" I ask him.

"Honey, you - you - you've got CLEAVAGE!" he sputters with awed W-UNDER.

I grin manically. He's right. I *do* have cleavage. Unfortunately my hundred-pound Elizabelly overshadows any magnificent breast-taking views I might be able to offer him.

Lucky for me, he doesn't even seem to notice the belly. Nor does he notice the puffiness, bloating, blotchy skin, leaks, swelling, crankiness, miserable rotten acne-ridden me. He just smiles and tells me how beautiful I am.

And that makes it so.

Peace, till next

Me, every day, all day: whinewhinewhinewhine.

I had another prenatal exam today - kidney function is only borderline crappy. BP is down to a good healthy level. There is still protein in my urine - but I asked the doc to explain it to me. Mine is in the 300 range right now, and I asked what range does it have to be in before it's "scary" and he said up in the thousands.

"Ah, Pish!" said I. "No problem. I can avoid that."

So I'm back to a goal of holding out for 37 weeks, and I think I can do it. It's ONLY less than two weeks away. Cake.

I'm trying to remember what I did yesterday that's different from every other day for the past few weeks. Because whatever I did, it made my BP go down, my kidney function improve, and I even lost a couple of pounds.

Today's temperature was 67 degrees at noon. Tomorrow it's supposed to be 30 degrees, and by next week, back down into the 20s. You have NO idea how badly I wish I could go roller blading today. It's killing me to see all this sunshine and warm weather - and be stuck on the couch.

But then I remind myself that I'm giving birth to a gold-plated child of immaculate perfection, and that this will all be worth it to have such an angelically flawless, perfectly-behaved super-child.

And then I realize that those gold-plated perfect children don't seem to run in our family, as I remember back to a phone conversation with sister Erin, who explained to me that she opened her pantry door, only to find her young Ethan perched naked on a sack of potatoes, shoveling dog food into his mouth, grinning like a fool.

Yeah. I can just picture E-Beth and Ethan teaching each other funny little tricks of childhood trade to each other.

Peace, till next

No baby today, but we got one step closer. I went in for my regular appointment yesterday at 9:45, and my doctor was worried about my kidney function and decided to send me right over to the hospital to meet with a kidney specialist. I was admitted. I had an IV put in. I peed many times for them. I had blood drawn. And all the King's horses and all the King's men decided that I was far too whiney and complainy to keep in the hopspital any longer than absolutely necessary and sent me home at 5 p.m.

I'm peeing in another big, red jug today. I have to go back to my regular doctor tomorrow for another BP check and pee in a cup, and then another NST and ultrasound on Friday. I feel very popular right now, and with all these appointments, it's ALMOST like I have a social life again. Throw in some movie theatre popcorn and it'll be a party!

I had a dream the other night that I had the baby, and she was actually a HE. We brought him home and I put him on the kitchen counter. He was a very good baby, and never cried, and after three days, I said to Brian with an amazingly empty expression on my face, "Aren't we supposed to be feeding it . . . or something?"

Brian pondered a moment, head stuck in the fridge, and finally answered, "Yeah, I think we are supposed to feed it . . . or something . . . "

People tell me that these nightmarish dreams are pretty normal. Our childbirth class teacher told us that they are - but never really elaborated on the topic much. Or maybe she did - we wouldn't know because we dropped out after three weeks and failed the class. Same as we did with Doggie-Be-Good class. And we all know how THAT story turned out.

Peace, 'til next

Dear God of the Onions, how can I thank you enough for watching over me and bringing me the greatest husband on earth? Last night he proved his undying love and devotion and presented me with a plate of five glorious, crispy, make-the-dog-drool, golden, baked, low-salt onion rings. Let me tell you, those were the best mother-bleeping morsels of food I have rested on my dying palette in what seems like decades.

To hell with the gastronomical side effects. Long live the onion. Give me onion or give me death. I am woman, hear my onions. Let them eat onions.

We shall call her Elizabeth Onion Piper.

We've packed our bags for D-Day. (We actually packed them back after the Thanksgiving scare, when we realized ANYTHING can happen at ANY TIME). After wearing hospital-supplied mesh-paper underpants for three days, I decided that a packed hospital bag was among the top priorities on our list of pre-baby "TO DOs"

WHAT I PACKED FOR ME:
*Ten pair of granny undies (I hear things get messy)
*toothpaste
*new toothbrush
*deodorant
*couple pairs of sweat pants & tent shirts
*fluffy fleecey bathrobe
*pajamas, a few
*girly supplies
*socks
*hairbrush
*back massager
*Mark's (of Mark's Pizzeria) phone number

WHAT I PACKED FOR ELIZABETH:
* ten going-home outfits (too many cute choices, I couldn't pick just ONE)
*Four blankets (it might be cold)
*five hats (to match the ten outfits)
*five pairs of itty bitty baby socks (to match the ten outfits)
*Baby suede snow suit (it's just the CUTEST thing!)
*diapers (soooo tiny!)
*car seat

WHAT I PACKED FOR BRIAN:
*$60 in quarters for phones/vending - just in case
* a list of 63 people to call once she is born
*New toothbrush
*deodorant

WHAT BRIAN PACKED:
*One pair boxer shorts
*Two Skydiving magazines
*One rock climbing magazine
*One WIRED magazine
*Cheese and crackers kits
*Peppermint patties
*kickin' MP3 tunes

So, I guess we're ready, right? I'll remind Brian to pick up some onions, THEN we'll be ready.

All hail the glorious onion.

Peace, till next

Three weeks!

I just got back from my weekly checkup and although my kidney function isn't all that great, my blood pressure is down, no protein-crud in my urine and if I can keep things status quo, I'll be having a baby in THREE WEEKS!

Yep! That's right - mark your calendars for the week of January 23rd, because that's when the Elizababy will be making her grand entrance!

Coincidentally, that will also be the date the I become Mark's (of Mark's Pizzeria) new best friend.

I'm still on bed rest. I still have to eat cardboard for the rest of the pregnancy, and yes, I was given another big, red pee jug to take home. (By the way, I was overwhelmed with dozens of helpful email suggestions on how to handle the pee jug dilemma - thank you to all who wrote in!)

Recommended movie:
Napoleon Dynamite. We laughed heartily. Brian can do an eerily accurate impersonation of the lead, Jon Heder.

So, that's it for today. I'm not feeling particularly funny - just particularly EXCITED that it's only THREE WEEKS UNTIL WE'RE PARENTS!!!!!!

Peace, till next

I am not going insane. I do not want an enormous turkey club sandwich with extra mayonnaise and crispy bacon, with extra turkey, mayonnaise and bacon on the side. Pizza is BAD. Chocolate cake is for sinners. Cheesecake will destroy your life and you will wind up living in a cardboard box. I don't need General Tso's chicken to make my life complete. Donuts are over-rated, especially when they are Krispy Kremes. Cardboard is perfectly good food. If it's good enough for hamsters, it's good enough for me.

I am not going insane. Four channels of local television, including the finest ghetto-Jerry-Springer-type-programming-America-has-to-offer is magnificent. Who needs cable? Cable is for the weak.

I am not going insane. 10 minutes of daily allotted Dialup internet is more than enough for the average American. Five minutes to download SPAM and unwanted porn emails, three minutes to delete them, leaving two minutes to respond to friends and loved ones. Sure, that's enough. DIE SPAMMERS, DIE!!!!!!!

I am not going insane. My fingers aren't twitching from sewing withdrawal. My mind isn't becoming an empty, cavernous void from lack of use. I drool because it's healthy. The blank stare is healthy. Sedentary living is healthy. Peeing in a big red jug should be the highlight of everyone's day. Convince yourself and others will believe too. . . . .

I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. I am not going insane. . . . . . .

Peace, till next

They gave me a new pee jug. Lucky me. My belly is bigger than it was two weeks ago, and the hole to pee in is still only two inches wide. Could someone do something to fix this very obvious design flaw?

Peeing on your hand at 3 am doesn't give you a warm cozy feeling, no matter what those freaking Arctic ice climbers tell you. It's actually rather disgusting. And it's worse when you have to trip over a spastic dog in the dark, fumbling your way to the kitchen skink because the bathroom sink is still in a disassembled porcelain heap in the corner.

Hey, don't get me wrong I'm DAMN grateful to have a place to pee without having to haul my hundred-pound belly up a flight of stairs. I'll live without the sink, and I'll do it with a smile.

A LOOK BACK AT OUR FAILURES FOR 2004:

This past year we started out Skye in doggie-be-good class. He made it to the prelim "heel" lesson, where he learned to sit next to our ankles attentively, waiting for the HEEL command - and then we dropped out due to pregnancy and home remodeling issues. (We're such losers)

So now Skye can do the beginnings of "HEEL," but then he just kinda stands there with his neck forcibly-leash cocked to the side as we try to drag him along next to us. Poor guy. We suck, and we know it..

Then we started our birthing classes - got almost to the point where we can successfully deliver a baby, and then we had to drop out because of my health issues. So now we don't know how to deliver this baby. Again, we suck.

So, to help me cope with all these feelings of failure, I've written out my birthing plan. It took a few rewrites, but I think I'm finally pleased with the results. Those women who have previously given birth and have advice to offer, please feel free to drop a line. I'm always open to suggestions. Moms who are writing their own birth plans, feel free to use mine.

Heather's Birthing Plan. Don't mess with it.

VISITOR LIST

The following people will be allowed in the delivery room:

Heather (Mom - has no choice)
Brian (Dad)
Doc
Nurses
Mark from Mark's Pizzeria (with a big, fat, salty pepperoni, olive, extra cheese pie - LARGE)

Special note: I don't care what Brian says, I did NOT authorize Skye to come hang with us in the delivery room. Skye is NOT our focal point for breathing exercises.

THE ROOM

Brian's got some kickin' tunes that he's downloaded on his new Christmas MP3 Player. He'd like to play those, and I say "Sure" as long as they are relatively calm tunes. No heavy metal songs with lyrics like "KILL YOUR MOTHER! I AM THE EVIL CHILD OF DOOM COMING TO DESTROY YOUR WORLD!"

DRUGS

As much as I'd like to pretend that I can handle any amount of pain thrown my way - I'll admit it. I can be a real wuss. If I'm screaming, give 'em. Whatever, whenever, however. Just make me smile. K? If I can't have drugs, just give me pizza or chocolate cake. They all have the same euphoric effect on me.

LABOR INDUCTION:

If induction becomes necessary, I ask that non-chemical induction methods be tried before chemical methods (Including pizza and chocolate cake). Be sure to remind Brian that non-chemical induction does NOT include him repeatedly poking me in the head and saying, "C'mon, honey! Do it! Do it! Do it!"

THINGS THAT MIGHT MAKE ME SCREAM:

Ummm, I prefer to not have an episiotomy if at all possible. 'nuff said?

No needles over 6 inches.

If you must stitch, give me pizza to divert my attention.

DADDY'S ROLE

Brian would like to be included fully in the “catching” of our child and cutting of the cord. However, he is not allowed to wear his baseball glove, and yell "Batterbatterbatterbatterswiiiiiiiiiingbatter", even though he thinks it would be funny.

That's all I have for now. I'm sure I'll think of a few more things to add though, and as I mentioned, I'm open to suggestions, so please feel free to drop a line if you have them.

Peace, till next