No One Expects The Spanish Inquisition.

Wow. I mean, just... wow.

I made it through to week 20 of this pregnancy without puking. NO VOMIT. I may have mentioned this before, but I really hate throwing up.

So finding out that Big Daddy's food poisoning incident on Tuesday was not, in fact, food poisoning... was not a good thing. Especially not good was finding out this vital piece of data at around 10pm on Wednesday, when my crushing headache suddenly turned into nausea and ferocious projectile vomiting.

Followed by raging diarrhea. (And.. you're welcome.)

Violent fluid loss in all possible ways from my body pretty much sums up the activities of the subsequent 24-hour period. Let's not even talk about the clean-up that was required, and just say that my husband is a raging candidate for sainthood. He's really earning his 30th birthday present (whitewater rafting with "The Guys" in July.)

The one bright spot in the clamoring chaos of the past week?

I have reserved an hotel room at the Westin St. Francis, San Francisco, for BlogHer. This room, where I anticipate late nights of giggling and intermittent weeping to take place, will be shared with This Lovely Lady... on condition that I promised my husband not to start a torrid affair with her. I did, however, receive permission to smack her on the bum with wild abandon. Also, since she is somewhat infamous for her wild abandon in bestowing random acts of licking, there will be a detailed diagram of "places I may be licked by mochamomma without having to confess and repent to my husband after the fact". Good thing I kept all those blank anatomical diagram sheets from nursing school. heh.

So I return you to your regularly scheduled programming. I, for one, will now commence laying prostrate on the sofa waiting for my strength to return.

PANIC! At the Neighbor's

A funny thing happened last Friday afternoon. I was reading my emails, puttering along, and I got a birthday letter that got me a little worked up.

And then I had a panic attack.

I thought, for a moment, that maybe I was having a heart attack. My chest got tight, my heart was racing, I felt like I might vomit, and then I got so dizzy I had to lay down on the floor and wait for it to pass.

Weird, right?

But I figured, hey, these things happen. I'm so full of hormones that eTrade commercials (you know the ones - with the creepy talking baby) have been known to make me mist up, and I might have been self-medicating my stress with.. you know... copius amounts of Amish Fudge.

Then yesterday I took the boys to playgroup next door. And, standing in the middle of my neighbor's kitchen, I felt my face flush, choked mid-sentence, and looked down to be sure my heart wasn't leaping from my chest with all that pounding. I excused myself from the conversation with a pitiful croak and went to seek solace on the couch.

So! Panic attacks. Fun new pregnancy symptom! Apparently 50 percent or so of pregnant women experience them. This statistic makes sense to me for first time mothers, because that first pregnancy is so fraught with anxiety about the baby: Will it have 2 of each appropriate limb? Will that little heart keep beating? What about those oh-so-edible toes - will they be perfect as they should?

But this is my third kid, people. I'm over the scary first trimester, all is well with our little lemon-size baby, and I'm not worried about the pregnancy in the least. So why the panic attacks? Well, apparently caffeine and sugar can trigger them. Okay, so no more coffee for me and I'll cut back on that (*sniffle*) Amish Fudge. I'm giving this sucker a week. Any more of these unwelcome episodes, though, and I'm going to have to have a serious heart-to-heart chat with my fetal tenant. In fact, let's have a warm-up right now.

Hello, there, kid. Hey, listen - your dad and I are ecstatic that you're on your way and all, and your brothers have promised only to give you noogies after your skull plates have sufficiently fused so as not to give you, like, brain damage and stuff... But we're gonna have to talk about these panic attacks. You see, I'M not worried about you. I have my suspicions about your gender, which would explain why YOUR anxiety might be leaking over to me. But rest assured, kiddo, that all will be well. You just enjoy your next 5 months in there where it's all nice and warm and dark, and I promise that when you come out I'll let you rule the roost for a little while. All the milk you can drink, a fresh diaper every time you look like you MIGHT be thinking about transacting some business into one, and as many snuggles as you can demand.

For now, though, baby? Please to be stopping with the giving of the panic attacks. Really. One day, I might even buy you a pony! Wouldn't you like a pony?

Sincerely,
Yo Mama.

And Then I Exploded and Died, The End.

I just ate about half a pound of beer-simmered sauerkraut.

I feel no shame on this account.

If I still needed proof of the pregnancy, this would about cover it.

Also, I apologize in advance to my fellow inhabitants of the Potomac Region for the blast of unholy wind that will doubtless make its way to the coast later this evening. Because sauerkraut + pregnant digestion = gas that would shame even my dog, and he was born without the necessary higher brain functions to feel actual shame. But trust me... if this was HIS gas, he would be ashamed.

But, for the record? OHMYGOODNESS how I do love me some sauerkraut.

Even if it means I might actually explode outwards from the inner pressure, thus ending a short but beautiful existence in a rare example of Death By Flatulence.

The End. (And you're welcome.)

Open Letter To My Body.

Dear Body,

It's time for us to have a serious discussion about getting it together, already. To recap?

March 2007: Digestive badness ends in trip to ER
May 2007: Herniated disc in back
June 2007: Miscarriage
December 2007: Appendicitis leads to emergency appendectomy
January 2008: Chest Cold From Hell

I am crawling, inch by painful inch, out of the black hole of the past few days.

Tuesday night, I found my stomach feeling a little on the queasy side. "Ah-HAH!" we thought. Morning sickness! Perhaps an indication that we are brewing a girl this time?

Oh, no. Not so.

February 2008: Stomach Bug brings wish for death

It seems that the stomach bug that gave T a few hours of tummy upset last week, then apparently migrated to Toby for a few bouts of diarrhea and a single puking episode, had made its way to me. And on the way? For fun? It had mutated.

I spent most of Tuesday night in reverent prayer to the porcelain gods. Mostly? Mostly I prayed for swift and merciful death. Anything to deliver me from the waves of nausea and sudden eruptions of vomit. Sesame chicken plus throwing up equals I can haz deaths now, plz?

By Wednesday morning the nausea had passed, and I had moved on to phase II, wherein my bowels made a mockery of every past digestive issue I ever thought was painful and disgusting. I have never lost so many fluids in such a short span in my life. I'll let you fill in the details, as I do maintain some small sense of decency and, really, I am scarred enough from the experience that I will refrain from sharing my agony further. Suffice it to say I was rapidly approaching dehydrated surrender.

Thankfully, a passing ice storm kept T home on Wednesday to take care of me and the boys. I spent most of Wednesday in bed. That is, when I wasn't making an Olympic-qualifying dash for the bathroom.

Yesterday was a bit better. I felt weak as a day-old kitten, and Toby spent a good part of the day screaming bloody murder for no apparent reason. Which of course reminded me why I am SO excited to have another one of these small hegemons currently couched in my womb. *sigh*

Today I almost feel human again. Food is going in and coming out at a semi-normal rate, and everyone seems to have settled back into something resembling our normal routine. I'm even making heart-shaped sandwiches for Jack's preschool Valentine party this afternoon. Because recovering from spirit-breaking sickness is no reason to lose my status as Awesomest Room Parent Ever. (Even if that status has been awarded only in my head.)

My lofty goals for the weekend include getting Jack (finally) registered for T-ball and hopefully touching base with my violin teacher, who likely supposes I have dropped off the face of the planet or been struck by a bus.

So, look, Body... It's been a year now. Can we call truce? Please? I feed you organic veggies and plenty of protein. I give you the occasional treat. I even park in the far-away spot at the grocery store to get the extra few paces of exercise! Sure I spend too much time in those comfy leather La-Z-Boy recliners that T's mom gave us, and I might carry around Toby more than carrying around a nearly-two-and-a-half-year-old can reasonably be justified... but... can you cut a girl some slack? Just a little? We both know the cancer is going to get us eventually, so in the mean time, can't we just enjoy the fact that we are not yet thirty? You know, like NORMAL people? C'mon, I'll even get us a spa day this spring. A nice pedicure - wouldn't you like that? Maybe a prenatal massage? I'll feed you more greens and fewer carbs! I'll even get serious about doing that prenatal yoga DVD at least 3 times a week.

So do we have a deal? I'll treat you a little more gently, and you'll ... well, you'll stop acting like you belong to a ninety-year-old woman who should be offering her grandkids a quarter to massage her aching feet. And one of these days, when we are finished with this babymaking business, I'll get us back into running and maybe we'll do a 5k to celebrate our rediscovered sense of cooperation.

For now, though? I'd settle for waking up in the morning without having to cough up half a lung or chomp a handfull of tums before I can begin to act like a normal human being. You know, the absence of acute illness. Baby steps.

Sincerely,
Mel

P.S. If you could also stop with the cravings for ice cream, we'll be a lot better off once this baby arrives. If we hit the 220 mark again with this baby, we're both going to have to deal with that reflection when we step naked from the shower, and I can't afford therapy for both of us. Kthxbye.

Slow, Slow, Quick-Quick..sorta

Let's get the quick-quick out of the way first, shall we?

I am still sorta slacking. But not really. But I'll explain more after Thursday afternoon. No, I can't explain that statement further right now, but suffice it to say that after Thursday I will be back to blogging with regularity and I will explain everything then.

Ahem.

Second quickie? I am still sick. Yesterday I was feeling better. Today I am feeling worse. Also I think I might have blown my nose hard enough this morning to extrude a small piece of brain tissue. Chomp on THAT visual for a while. And then realize it was about 10 times more disgusting than you imagined it.

On to the slow. And the painful.

I am fairly ambivalent when it comes to football teams in general and the Patriots in particular... But, being married to a rabid Pats fan, I do my wifely duty and cheer them on. Last night we had a few friends over to watch the game and gorge on way too much good food (Hello Puerto Rican Meatballs, and where have you been all my life?).

And so it was that slowly, yet surely, my husband's soul was crushed last night. All his hopes and dreams, the incredible high of this past season, the anticipation of a "Nineteen games! Undefeated!".... these things were smashed to teeny-weeny-smithereeniez.

So, to get to the crux of my dilemma... I can't bring myself to really put more sincerity into it than a wistful "Oh, that's too bad, isn't it." How, then, dear internet, am I possibly supposed to cheer up poor T? What is the accepted protocol for this sort of thing. Is there a hallmark card for this scenario? Or do I just have to ride it out until the start of Soccer season? (When he can put all his hopes on his other team, the one I actually care enough to root for on my own, our beloved D.C. United). (Not that I actually watch all their games with him because.. hello!.. scripted television requires my attention, y'all.)

The only other competition that might be able to cheer him is the Super Tuesday race tomorrow. I usually don't get rabid about politics -- I try to be as measured as possible, keeping my mind open to new information, etc. But in this case, I'm actually getting hopeful, nay, excited at the possibility of the DNC actually getting my candidate on the ticket this year.

It all really came together for me after the South Carolina primary. It was the first time I had actually listened to a full speech by Barack Obama, and by the end of it I was nodding my head with enthusiasm and even occasionally pointing at the television and (okay, if I'm totally honest) also maybe I was yelling "Yes! Exactly!" like a bag lady talking to her cats.

But at that moment, I bought into it. Into the evangelizing, into the stirring words and the impassioned voice. At that moment I believed that my vote might actually count for something in this next election, that maybe this godawful war in Iraq won't really trail endlessly on into the next century, that maybe the economy doesn't have to stay in the crapper. Most importantly, I began to think it possible that the intolerance and the paranoia that have stripped away so many of the sacred civil liberties that should be protected in this country - the very things that give us something worth protecting and defending - could be restored.

In the frantic and rabid race to "go out and get our enemies and crush them where we find them" etc, etc, etc hawkishness of the recent-past, I have done some serious soul-searching. I honestly believe that if the US turns into a place where we justify the use of torture, where we spy on our own citizens without warrant or probable cause, where we detain people for months or years without the benefit of legal protection or counsel... if we continue further down the path that the current administration placed us on... well, in my mind, we become a country and a way of life no longer worth defending.

If you have to destroy it in order to defend it, you've already lost the battle.

And listening to Barack Obama, rereading some of his previous speeches and looking at the people who would be working with him and around him were he to become the next president...

I can't help but begin to hope that all the things I love most about this country - about the way of life we profess to protect, the ideals we hold as our foundation - might be restored and even magnified, after all.

Obama '08.

*Stepping carefully down from soapbox, because I am clumsy and fall down quite easily*

Okay, I promise, no more hot-buttons for a while. Just hot tea and a warm couch. SNIFFLE.

Christmas Survey

Still convalescing, in case you were wondering. But I am at least eating now, mostly cake. Moms have brought us lots of cake. Which is why moms are awesome, and also why my sweat smells vaguely of sugar and crisco. And you're welcome.

Dr. Allie sent me this meme in an email, and because I am still blaming the percocet for my stifled creativity you are now the benefactors of my inability to navigate my email client while heavily medicated. And you're welcome, again. The stitches come out Saturday. My back gets injected on Thursday. If I'm lucky, I might get to poop by Friday.

Once more, with feeling now.... You're Welcome!

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?

Wrapping paper. Typically with ridiculously anal-retentive creases and coordinating bows. Everyone has a talent, y'all.

2. REAL OR FAKE TREE?

Love the smell of real trees, but hate the whole care and feeding portion of the activity. We have a fake one for now; I figure it will tide us over until the boys are old enough to demand authenticity. It's also pre-lit, because I am incapable of correctly wrapping lights.

3. When do you put up the tree?

Typically the weekend after Thanksgiving. There was a brief delay this year, because of my Gram passing over Thanksgiving weekend. I just wasn't up for it when we got back from Ohio, but a few days of respite and I was ready to gear up for some holiday spirit.

4. When do you take the tree down?

The weekend after New Years.

5. Do you like eggnog?

My left butt cheek is entirely attributed to egg nog. In recent years I began cutting it with milk, because the hard stuff was noticeably hardening my arteries.

6. Favorite gift received as a child?

Cabbage Patch Doll. I wanted that sucker for so many months, I think I actually had a small apoplexy when I opened it.

7. Do you have a nativity scene?

Yes, but I don't think we remembered to put it up this year. I should probably dig it out before I pack the rest of the boxes away in the basement...

8. Hardest person to buy for?

Honestly? Myself. I never know what I want for Christmas, and T always gets me something creative, but I never really have any good ideas for him. In recent years, though, I think I've gotten easier. A gift card for clothes or lingerie, and anything from Bath and Body Works pretty much fills in the cracks.

9. Easiest person to buy for?

T. Because he tells me what he wants starting in about March, and wages a campaign from there until December. This year was easiest, though, because he's not getting what he asked for until later in the spring, so I got him exactly what he needed instead of what he pined for. He'll still love it.

10. Worst Christmas gift you ever got?

No idea. Maybe the year that "Santa's Little Helper" gave everyone gag gifts from the Goodwill store? I think I got an oven mitt. I was 12.

11. Mail or email Christmas cards?

Mail! We've only got one so far this year (Thanks to Dr. Allie and the Amazing Wonder Steve!). Then again, I have not yet mailed OUR cards out. I'm still working on getting a decent photo of the boys to include with our Christmas letter. We'll try again this week, I guess.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie?

It's a Wonderful Life. I try to watch it every Christmas Eve, though I am forced to compete with T's everlasting worship of Bill Murray and Scrooged. I admit, Scrooged is a great movie... but when it gets down to true holiday spirit, nothing compares with Zuzu and her petals, baby.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?

Typically in November. I would lie and say earlier, but the truth is I keep ahead of things about 10 minutes at a time. I keep trying to get on the ball, but I think it's a losing battle at this point in my life. I'll try again when I have grandkids. Maybe.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?

Honestly, No.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?

Fudge, cookies... and of course Christmas Dinner - Standing rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, red cabbage....

16. Clear lights or colored on the tree?

Clear.

17. Favorite Christmas song?

The Christmas Song.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home?

Stay at home for Christmas Eve/Morning. It's all good to go to family for Christmas Dinner, though. Makes the day feel like 2 days of celebrating.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer?

Sadly, yes. Don't forget Rudolph.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star?

Star.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?

Morning! Though I like the idea of everyone getting a new pair of PJ's and opening just that gift on Christmas Eve. Might have to start that tradition this year.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of year?

People who absolutely miss out on the holiday spirit and can't even, at this time of year, just for a few weeks, put on a smile and be a little bit kinder to the world. Seriously, some old guy in a car full of family and kids cursed me out the other day because he didn't like T's parking job and I happened to be waiting in the passenger seat of the car. What is that about?

23. What I love most about Christmas?

Every. Single. Thing. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. Being together with family and friends, wrapping carefully selected gifts, getting covered in flour and chocolate while making cookies and fudge. It's all so good, I can hardly hold it in.

Now if I can just get back on my feet, I can dive back in to all the Christmas preparation and maybe get back a little of the holiday spirit that I'm lacking all propped up in my recliner with my stitches and my pain meds for company.

I'm too tired to figure out who to tag with this sucker so, if you're reading this, you may officially consider yourself tagged. Ready, steady, GO!

The Better Part Of Valor, Part Deux

Sometimes you have to laugh at life. Which I would, but the laughing causes pain beyond what the percocet can control.

That stomach pain that crashed in on me on Thursday? It got worse... before it got MUCH worse. Finally, I dropped the boys off with a friend and drove myself over to ye olde small towne Emergency Room.

Approximately 6 hours later I was strapped to an operating table with my abdomen laid open.

Needless to say, I missed my appointment with the spine center for my injection. I was too busy having my appendix removed.

It wasn't all doom and gloom, though. T's Mom came to the hospital and looked after me while I did my best not to scream obscenities in several different languages in response to the incredible pain. The boys were incredibly well cared for, had their first sleep-over at a friend's, and made me the cutest Get Well cards ever.

Big Daddy T, himself, hopped the next plane home from Singapore and arrived late yesterday to take over the care and feeding of one groggy and whimpering Me. My Moms Club is bringing in dinner for the next few days.

So, I'm loopy from the pain meds and generally feeling like I've been put through the spin cycle a few times. But! I'm alive and mostly none the worse for wear. We got the appendix out in time (the surgeon says another 12 hours and it would have burst, which I've been told is Really Not Good) and I'm settling in to take a nap in front of a movie with T and the boys.

All in all, after a scary and painful couple of days, it's quiet now and all is just about right with the world.

More later - though probably not until after I am done with pain meds. This attempting to think and put together sentences through the fuzzy cloud is making me nauseous.