out of Kadesh

Once upon a time, on the East side of the river in a town called Nashville, a pub opened up. This pub was known as the Village Pub, and all the locals looked forward to nights of merriment at the new establishment.

One such couple, excited about the possibility of discovering a regular warm spot to unwind after a trying day, loaded up their infant babe and plenty of cash one afternoon. Off they took in their shiny car, the babe babbling contentedly in his seat.

By the time the happy couple reached the pub, the babbling babe was fast asleep in his seat. Having successfully unsnapped the babe’s seat from the base (as new-fangled car seats are wont to do), the couple entered the pub with car seat and sleeping babe in tow.

A sign on the door read “Must be 21,” and the couple exchanged a wary glance. “What is this, a truck-stop?” laughed the young man. Nevertheless, the door tinkled merrily as it opened. A yellow-haired woman with menus under her arm welcomed the threesome and invited them to sit anywhere. “Anywhere” was an accurate description of the choices of seating, as no one else had yet arrived at the Village Pub.

After all, the hour was 4:00.

Choosing a seat out on the vast porch, the couple drank in the glorious late-afternoon weather and poured over the menus. The babe made mouth movements in his sleep. The yellow-haired woman brought glasses of ice water and placed them in front of the young couple. Before so much as ordering an adult beverage or a large pretzel, the couple was asked rather abruptly and rudely, “Are you 21?” When the couple responded in the affirmative, they were asked to show identification. “Odd,” the young woman mused. “What if we were just going to get food and no alcohol?”

“It doesn’t matter,” cut in the yellow-haired woman. “You must be 21 to be here.”

“Our baby, too?” laughed the young woman, gesturing to the sleeping babe.

The yellow-haired woman glanced down at the babe, then back at the young woman.

“Yes. We can’t allow babies in here.”

Shocked, the couple gathered their things and their sleeping babe in his detachable car seat. The yellow-haired woman offered an insincere “Sorry” before sweeping their menus into her arm and striding past them through the door. As the young couple left the empty pub, the young woman realized that for the first time since their babe had made his precious appearance into the world, they had been given the boot because he was with them.

The young couple reattached the babe’s seat to its base, closed the doors to their shiny car, and drove away, never to return to that hateful establishment. But from that day onward, any time they passed the (unsurprisingly always empty) Village Pub, they remembered with bitterness the way they had been treated there, and they smiled back at their babbling babe in his seat, glad for his presence in their lives.

Tell me something, Reader. Am I the only mom whose baby goes OUT OF HIS WAY to do exactly the opposite of what is best for him?

He’s crawling now, and that means my hair is turning gray in big clumps. He doesn’t want to crawl around the ENTIRE FLOOR that I just vacuumed of all the stray dog fur and pieces of litter the cat tracked in on his freakin’ paws. His highness would rather scoot his diaper over to the vent and stick his fingers in. He wants to pull himself up ONLY on precarious bookshelves or sharp-edged coffee tables, or other devices designed to cause great pain when they come toppling down. He wants to explore all the electrical outlets and the plugs (and CORDS! Glorious cords!) that are connected to them. He doesn’t want any of the fifty toys that I’ve placed in strategic points around the living room for him to crawl to. Those are for babies. OH WAIT.

He also doesn’t want to chew on his teethers when there are perfectly good fingers and collar bones that just stick out at the exact perfect nomming angle. We have our own little Hannibal Lecter living right under our roof. “You see, Clarissa, flesh is MUCH more soothing on the gums than cold gel-filled plastic.”

Oh, except when it comes to nursing. I sit him down because my poor chest is about to burst with milk, and I get this reaction like, Nursing during the day? Are you serious!? There are dog’s paws to be tasted! Cat’s tails to be yanked! GET THAT BOOB OUTTA MY FACE! But then he’s hollering for me eight times a night to nurse because he didn’t get enough calories during the day.

Yeah. Forget about sleeping. He’ll cat nap on our evening walk, or take a power nap in his car seat on the way to lunch. And those cumulative 30 minutes will last him ALL THE LIVELONG DAY. And forget about trying to put him back to sleep once we get home. He’s all, IT’S GO TIME, LADY. GIVE ME THOSE COMPUTER CORDS. I am completely exhausted from standing over him in his crib at 4am while he spins around at alarming speeds. I’d bring him in bed with us again, but he’s so playful now he thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to get some extra crawl practice in. And some talking practice. And some ripping-out-Daddy’s-chest-hair-in-patches practice. (Lance LOVES waking up this way.)

So tell me. Is it Perpetual Opposite Day for babies? Or has Noah just not adjusted yet from whatever crazy planet he came from?

It’s so hot in Nashville this week that I’ve just been sitting inside the house with the AC running as much as possible. Yesterday, when our daily 4:00 Coffee Hour came around, we decided to skip the block-and-a-half walk to the coffee shop and (gasp!) brew our own. I did have to go grocery shopping, as the contents of our refrigerator were as follows: filtered water, dijon mustard, yogurt. We had been living on Lance’s leftover birthday cake for about three days when I decided if I ever wanted to poop again I’d better get us some real food stat. So I hauled my (significantly larger, after three days of cake) ass down to the local Turnip Truck. And then to Harris Teeter, to get the stuff I can’t get at the Turnip Truck. ((sigh))

Man, I hate grocery shopping. Now, I love cooking, and I love fresh food, but I loathe the whole grocery store process. It never changes. It’s boring. You bring your list. You wander down the aisles. You get way too much stuff. You check out. You spend $100 because you bought a bunch of organic produce and dairy, and that “ORGANIC” label should really just read “$2.50 MORE THAN THE INFERIOR KIND.” If you go when you’re hungry, you buy way too much. If you go when you’re full, you don’t want any of it. There’s no good time. Ugh, it just sucks, ok? I want someone to bring me bags of groceries every week, the exact kind I would have picked out for myself, and that way I’d never have to pass through those sliding doors into the land of fluorescent lights and canned goods ever again.

Which. BY THE WAY. I should not HAVE to go to the store to buy certain veggies, because our Night Garden should be producing green peppers, tomatoes, zucchini, and cucumbers. Oh, and cilantro and basil, too. But the only thing we have, besides one sad, deformed little pickle, is jalapeños. Don’t get me wrong, the dozens of jalapeños we have harvested are awesome. Totally spicy little bites of goodness. But I’m JUST SAYIN’, they would be better in fresh-from-our-garden pico de gallo.

The truth is, I have a confession to make. Ever since Noah started eating little bites off our plates, I’ve been cooking more carefully. I add little to no salt, for instance, because it’s not good for him. (That’s not the confession.) And now when I’m eating something, he starts reaching for it because he understands that I can give him bites of my food. (That’s not the confession either.) The truth is, I have an unhealthy addiction that I don’t know how to break, and for his sake I feel like I must. Ok. The true truth is that I do not WANT to break my addiction.

Here it is, reader: I freaking LOVE refined sugar mixed with white flour and baked at 350 degrees. AH! Where are support groups for this!?

I love muffins. I love cake. I love peanut-butter-oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies. I love cookies. I love pancakes. I love pastries and baked items of all kinds.

The worst part is living the double standard of “Mommy can have this food but Noah can’t.” I’ll be eating a muffin with my coffee and he’ll reach for it, and I’ll give him a bite of banana. What about his first birthday cake? None of his baby friends are eating sugar. In fact, none of my friends with kids seem to share my addiction. I don’t understand it. I had a discussion with my neighbor the other day who was saying she was going to sweeten her baby’s first cake using nothing but apple sauce and pineapple juice. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even own a bag of sugar. Good thing I found this out before knocking on her door asking for a cup. I hate an embarrassing scene.

Maybe this is why I feel so guilty about it. In every other way, I’m making all healthy choices for my family. Lance and I never buy candy or soda or any kind of chips other than tortilla chips. But if any of my mom friends saw me purchasing a cinnamon roll, everyone in the room would be mortified. I’d be judged, I tell you. JUDGED! Does this seem silly? I worry too much, right? You’re thinking, “Just limit yourself.” Um, I try to do that every week, promise. You’re thinking, “It’ll be ok when he’s older.” And just when do kids reach the age where sugar becomes ok? With childhood obesity such a huge issue right now, I feel pressure to be feeding Noah only fruits and veggies, brown rice, and whole-wheat bread until he’s 18.

I can’t be the only mom on the block that wants to bake cookies for her child, can I? No one is ever going to let their kids come over to our house. I’m supposed to want to serve up a platter of carrots and celery after school. Maybe some nice apples. That would be a healthy snack. You know they changed “Cookie Monster” to “Veggie Monster”? Can I repeat this for you? THEY CHANGED COOKIE MONSTER TO VEGGIE MONSTER. I love veggies y’all, but let me just say this about that. At the 4:00 Coffee Hour, I damn sure am not thinking ME WANT VEGGIES.

Phew! I sit here with my feet up on the coffee table as Lance finishes up the first-ever batch of Roggendorff home brew. It’s been about a six-hour process, complete with all the right amount of mishaps (sticky beer spilled all over the floor, the realization that we needed to sterilize more water RIGHT as we needed it, had to run out to the store for more ice, etc.). But our good friends Amy and Daniel were here to help and keep us company, so it was fun. And with any luck, in a few months’ time I’ll be posting about the deliciousness that is the Roggendorff porter.

Unless I can’t drink any.

Oh, hi! Did you see that segue? Oh, MAN was that good. At least, it would have been good, if I hadn’t broken that smooth transition to point out how smooth a transition it was. So now you’re just like, “A segue to what? Where are you transitioning?” Just pretend this paragraph isn’t here. I’m going to leave it here because it’s late and at the moment it’s making me laugh, although tomorrow when I read back over this I’ll probably wonder why I ever thought it was funny.

MIGRAINES: A Brief History

When I was about 12, I came down with the worst headache I’d ever had. I remember lying on the couch with a cold washcloth on my forehead, moaning in agony. All the lights were off because they felt like daggers in my eyes, and my mother was sitting with me and whispering because noise felt like daggers in my ears. The pain was so bad I was throwing up. I’d never experienced anything so horrible in all my born days. I thought I was merely sick with some kind of cancerous, bone-shattering, torturous, impending-death thing. I had no idea it would be so much worse than that: the onset of a lifetime battle with migraines. (Even the word makes me feel ill. Say it out loud. Doesn’t it just sound like your imminent doom arises?)

Ok. So fast-forward 10 years, and I’m at church, and this guy says, “I feel like we need to pray for people who suffer from migraines.” And I’m all, WHERE DO I KNEEL? I mean it was so simple, the guy is like, “…something something something, and heal anyone who gets migraines, something something something else.” And I’m like, cool, that maybe worked. And Reader, I cross my heart and hope to die, IT WORKED. God healed me; it’s true. I didn’t get another migraine from that point RIGHT up until about three months ago.

BOOOOOOM.

Let me say this for the record: I don’t believe God took away His healing because I didn’t read my Bible last week. Not that I can claim to know what God is thinking, because despite the prayers of myself and my husband and family and friends, the migraines aren’t going away. And that little voice inside my head wonders why I’m having to pray this at all, since I was throughly healed four years ago. (Did I say “little” voice? Allow me to correct myself: I meant HUGE voice. ASTRONOMICAL. CRISIS. ZOUNDS.) This is all food for thought, and possible thought for another blog post. But now that I’ve caught you up on the history, let’s get back to the present.

MIGRAINES: A Day in the Life

I usually know what’s coming as soon as I wake up. The pain is on one side of my neck and shoots all the way up into my eyeball. I have, of late, become a perpetual pill popper, which I will get to in a second, but by this time I know the pills will only serve to lessen the inevitable migraine, not kill it. I switch between Acetaminophen and Ibuprofen; neither do much at this point anyway. Plus, about half an hour later the nausea starts, and I start throwing up soon thereafter. The throwing up is the worst part. I know people who can barf and feel better; I am not one of those people. The shakes and the pounding in my already-sore head follow the retching, and I scrape my pathetic body off the bathroom floor and heave it back into bed. On good migraine days, I puke once or twice, and exhaustion outweighs the pain in my head, which causes me to sleep, and I almost always feel better after a couple of hours sleep. Almost always. On bad migraine days, the ralphing is continual, sleep doesn’t come, and the migraine laaaassstttsss aaannnndddd laaaaasssstttss.

Oh, I lied. The throwing up is not the worst part, Reader. The worst part of all this is that I am out of commission for at least half the day until I recover enough to sit up on my own and eat some crackers. The worst part is that these migraines are so debilitating that I can’t take care of my son. I CAN’T TAKE CARE OF MY SON. Lance, the one who works from home in order to make money, in order for us to live in a house and have food, has to do it. Between trying to squeeze in a few minutes of work and diaper changes and feedings and keeping Noah entertained, he runs back to check on me, with my head over the toilet bowl or in bed moaning with a cold washcloth on my forehead. And all I can do is lay there listening to Noah fussing or laughing or talking or crying and I can’t be with him because I’m barely alive.

God, it’s fucking LONELY.

So I’m just thinking about how much I’m missing and how I can’t do the one job I have right now, which is to be Noah’s mom, and my overworked husband has to do it instead. And then I get angry and start crying, which makes everything SO much better. Eventually I fall asleep and wake up dazed to the sound of Noah wailing because he needs me (read: he needs my boobs) and I usually feel well enough to get up and nurse him, shower, and eat some broth or something.

And that’s how it goes. Every week. Oh, didn’t I mention? This happens ONCE. A. WEEK. In fact, I can tell you with 100 percent certainty that in the last three months, I’ve had five times as many migraines as I ever have in the rest of my life, EVER. COMBINED. I’ve done research, and worst-case scenarios are ones where women get MONTHLY migraines around the time of their periods. I’m JEALOUS OF THE WORST-CASE SCENARIOS. I’m all, once a MONTH!? Where do I sign up for that?

MIGRAINES: Searching (in Vain) for the Solution

Fear haunts me. Every day I wake up and if I don’t feel the tell-tale pinch in my neck and claw-like grip on the back of my eye, I’m overwhelmed with relief and joy. But I know I’m not completely off the hook, because there have been times when the onset of a migraine comes in the middle of the day. If I’m well all day, by nighttime I’m so relieved to not have had a migraine that I thank the Lord for protecting me. Then I’m racked with fear thinking about the night ahead of me and the morning I’ll face in a few hours. I spend my last moments of consciousness petitioning God to protect me the following day from a migraine.

I mentioned that I’ve become a perpetual pill-popper. I hate this because I’m still breastfeeding, and because your body can develop a tolerance when you take medicine all the time. But fear grips me with the slightest twinge in my neck or head. IT COULD LEAD TO ME OVER THE TOILET, PEOPLE. I end up taking over-the-counter pain killers almost every day.

I’ve been to the doctor. She prescribed me a low dose of some medication which I’ve used and which does NOTHING. The doctor talked with me about some of the triggers in my diet, such as caffeine, wine, chocolate, cheese… basically everything I love. I cut out alcohol, because I thought I noticed migraines the morning after I’d drink even a small margarita or glass of wine. But it didn’t help. I researched some more and found out low estrogen can be a trigger, which I have because I’m still breastfeeding. A major trigger also, it seems, is SLEEP DISTURBANCES. AHEM, NOAH ROGGENDORFF. But I know plenty of moms who are still breastfeeding and waking several times a night and don’t suffer for it with this horrid sickness.

I’ve thought how awesome it would feel to saw off my head. I HAVE HAD THAT THOUGHT. I decided not a good solution though, in the end. After some discussion with Lance.

I watched Noah scoot around on the floor today, and promptly got up and made another appointment with my doctor. I’m going to ask her to send me to a migraine specialist I found in Nashville. I can’t live like this, especially when Noah starts crawling. If this doesn’t end, what am I going to do? (No Megs, it’s just fear, fear, fear… stop it.) So I’m going to the doctor on Wednesday, and I’m still going to keep praying and trusting that God will have compassion on my poor husband and baby, and ME, and heal me again. If you believe in prayer, please pray for me. If you DON’T believe in prayer, please pray for me anyway.

I’ll keep y’all posted.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted about how I’d been sick, and a couple of days later, I posted that I’d been sick again. And then when I was sick three more times after that post, I didn’t post about being sick anymore because I figured you were sick about hearing about me… being… sick. Yeah. But the point is, I’ve been sick, and I mean, knock-me-out, throwing up, can’t stand up, can’t lift my son, have to stay in bed, have to get my mom and sister to come help with Noah and bring him to me and stick him on my boob when he’s hungry because I can’t do anything but roll over and drool kind of sick. And even though I am generally a very healthy girl who made many pregnant ladies super jealous when they found out I didn’t throw up once during my pregnancy, I’ve been sick many, many times this month. So last Friday, when I woke up with pain exploding in my head and the now-familiar but still nails-on-chalkboard horrible wave of nausea, I finally made an appointment and went to the doctor.

The doctor ordered a blood test, and the blood test showed abnormalities. And then the doctor couldn’t get in touch with me right away with the results, so she left a message, but before I even had a chance to listen to the message she scared the bejesus out of me by finding me on facebook and sending me a message that asked me to call about my blood work. REALLY. REALLY?

It turns out I am NOT dying and do NOT need to find my way to the nearest hospital in order for them to save my life which has precious minutes left if I don’t get help immediately, which is the only reason I can think to contact a patient by finding them on a SOCIAL NETWORKING SITE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. She told me the blood test showed that I had an over-active thyroid.

“An over-active whu-huh?”
“It controls your metabolism, and it’s working too hard, too fast, causing the dizziness, anxiety, and nausea.”
“O……..kay…….”
“It happens sometimes postpartum, because your thyroid gets messed up during pregnancy, so you need to see a specialist, because it could really cause problems if we don’t get it regulated.”
“O…….kay. Then do I still need to see the Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist about my inner-ear like you said on Friday? Or can I cancel that appointment now?”
“No, you still need to go to that too.”
“Perfect.”

The morning after this conversation, I got a call from the Thyroid Specialist’s office.
“We’d like to get you in as soon as possible. Women who have this condition because of pregnancy… well, we just need to see you pretty immediately. How does this Thursday work with your schedule?”
“Um, fine… I guess… I mean I never really have time to go to the doctor because I have a four-month-old… so…”
“Great! So we’ll squeeze you in at 11:45. Be here 30 minutes early to fill out a shit-load of paperwork that, were we competent, we could have gotten from the doctor who referred you to us. Okay?”
“Right. Thanks.”

Maybe I’m just not used to doctors calling me every couple of days and CONTACTING ME ON FACEBOOK to tell me something is wrong with me and rushing to get me appointments and everything, but I was beginning to be seriously concerned. I mean I’d heard of a thyroid before, but only just. So to me, it seemed like everyone was kind of…. panicked. On my behalf. Just keep this in mind, because it pertains to the story. Later. I think. After I got off the phone with them it occurred to me that I had no idea what this office visit was going to entail. They could be planning any number of torturous tests; they could be planning on poking me with a dozen needles! Or running CT scans! Or surgery! When I expressed my (TOTALLY FOUNDED) fears to Lance, he told me I watch too much Grey’s Anatomy, and I was all “Well EXCUSE ME for doing RESEARCH.”

The doctor’s office is about 30 minutes away, so I called my mom to meet us at a Starbucks nearby so we could leave Noah with her. I would have had her come over to our house while we trekked all the way out there, but Noah has recently decided he will not be taking a bottle ever again, thank you very much, so I have to bring him everywhere with me so my boobs are always readily accessible to him.

After we filled out 30 minutes worth of paper work, payed a 50 DOLLAR COPAY as we were seeing a Specialist oooo, and had my vitals taken (apparently I have a pulse), the doctor came in.

“So how are you feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“Let’s take a look at your medical history. Hmm… that’s interesting, no history of thyroid disease?”
“Um, not that I know of.”
“Well, basically the antibodies in your blood are either attacking or sitting on TOP of your thyroid. But we can’t really know which it is unless we give you a radioactive substance to drink so we can take a picture of your insides.”
“Exsqueeze me?! Baking powder?! But I’m breastfeeding!”
“Right, well, you’d have to pump your breast milk and throw it away for about a week after the procedure. But a lot of people don’t want to do that.”
“Weird, I can’t imagine why.”
“Well, in all likelihood it’s just postpartum thyroiditis, which should clear up on its own in about 4-6 weeks.”

…………………………….

(Insert things I could have said)

“THEN WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?!!!”
“I want my $50 back.”
“Did my doctor owe you a favor or something?”
“Could a phone call not have taken care of this office visit?!”
“This is the dumbest thing I have ever done.”

Instead, I just blinked a couple dozen times, until she awkwardly asked, “So, do you have any questions?”

“You mean other than WHAT THE FUCK? No.”

“Ok! I’ll see you back here in 4-6 weeks then!”

LIKE HELL YOU WILL.

I learned several important lessons today. One was that even though I was kind of proud of losing so much weight after my pregnancy (I’m 3 pounds less than I was before I got pregnant), it turns out it’s not because of my daily walks through the golf course and lifting a 17 pound baby. It’s because I’m sick.

So I used to be all GO BREASTFEEDING! But now I’m all GO THYROID!

You’re not going to believe this.

So I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and I go up to the cashier and I say “Hey, how are you?” and he says “Good! How are you doing?” in that way that lets me know he recognizes me, and he should since I’m in there at least a couple of times a week. And I say “Great! I’d like to order a single Americano, please.” And he says, “Is that all?” And there are like these mouth-watering looking pastries all around me, like SURROUNDING me, Reader, like in various proverbial beams of light. And I go, “Well, I really shouldn’t, but I’ll have a piece of the coffee cake.” And I smile.

And HE goes (are you REALLY READY? Because I wasn’t, which is why this is even a story worthy of a blog post. Just sayin’, GET READY): “Yeah, you really shouldn’t.”

WWWWHHHHHHAAAAAATTTTT??????!!!!!!!!!

Dudes. Ok I know I just had a baby, and I’ve definitely had my skinnier days, but I’ll be honest with you, I feel like I look pretty good. And I was feeling pretty good today because I’m still recovering from food poisoning a couple of days ago. Oh, and have I not mentioned? I WAS THROWING UP AGAIN YESTERDAY. MORE THROWING UP. LESS WATER WEIGHT. Since Wednesday, the most I have had to eat in one sitting is a sandwich and a bowl of soup. I’M ENTITLED TO A PASTRY DAMMIT. (And P.S., even if I was never sick and had no excuses at all, I’d still have gotten a pastry. It’s the kind of girl I am.)

So he says “Yeah, you really shouldn’t,” and I give like a weird, awkward little chuckle before I realize what I’m actually laughing at. And my mind is going “Wait, what?” but I just stand there, waiting for him to give me my change, like a big lump, which apparently he thinks I am anyway. And truly, what do you say to something like that? The only thing I can think is like: “Did you really mean to say what you just said? Because I think, surely you didn’t. Maybe you have a thing against refined sugar? Maybe you’re annoyed with me for saying ‘I know I shouldn’t'? Or do you have some sort of condition where everything you think comes out of your mouth? And by the way, if that’s true, I’d hate to hear what you said to the woman sitting over there who is the size of two of me.”

My friend Michael thinks I should have said, “Oh, thanks, but I’m already married.” I’m going to keep that one in my pocket for a later use. Knowing me, though, I’ll probably spring it on someone totally inappropriately. I can’t handle cool one-liners. It’d be like this:
Innocent guy: “Wow, it’s hot out today, isn’t it?”
Me: “SORRY MAN, I’M MARRIED! I’ll give you my girlfriend’s phone number, though. HAA!”

Sadly though, instead of whipping out an awesome reply, I just took my fat girl cake and went and sat down.

And as I sat there shoving it into my chubby face, I thought to myself, “Why did I apologize to the barista for getting something that’s maybe not 100% great for me? Why did I feel the need to say ‘I know I shouldn’t'? Why am I justifying myself to this total stranger? I didn’t even realize I was doing it.” So I’m not going to do that anymore. Check. Done.

So I guess I have him to thank for that.

That coffee cake was good, yo.

Oh, you know how I love a good reason to use all-caps phrases in my posts. “NO HE DID NOT JUST SHOOT POOP ACROSS THE DRESSER,” or “DON’T MESS WITH ME OR I’LL SQUIRT MILK IN YOUR EYE,” for instance. But I found one excuse that I wish had never happened in order for me to post this: I JUST HAD FOOD POISONING. The rest of this post could definitely be in all caps, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW I FEEL, but I’ll spare you. Lance doesn’t like all-caps because he doesn’t like being computer-yelled at. I understand. EXCEPT THAT I JUST HAD FOOD POISONING.

I could write about how I had to pause between hurling spells to nurse my baby, or I could complain about how my once abundant milk production has dwindled to mere drops in my dehydrated state. I could tell you that I’d rather get sick with anything, ANYTHING, other than vomiting. I could even, were I so selfishly inclined, go on and on about how miserable the last few months have been and how I’ve never been sick so often with so many different afflictions and WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, but… I won’t. Suffice it to say I am better now, I can lift my 20 pound son again without falling immediately to my knees, and I look endearingly emaciated. (Whu-huh!?) It’s just that as I lay in bed yesterday with my mouth hanging open and my eyes sliding in and out of focus, my 18-year-old sister, with barely concealed jealousy, came in and said “If it’s any consolation, you look anorexic.” Oh did I say endearingly emaciated? I think I meant SCARY AS ALL HELL.

Ok, so I’m better. Thank You, sweet Jesus. (Which is what I said every single time I picked my brittle bones off the bathroom floor. “Thank You, Jesus, that I didn’t die that time. Somewhere in the middle just now, I thought I was a goner for sure, but I made it!”)

In other news, my sister, who has been staying with us for almost two months, and my parents, who have been here almost one month, all moved back home today. The house feels a lot bigger and emptier than I remember, which makes me feel oddly blue. Also it’s a lot cleaner. (rimshot!) But seriously. Honestly I’m kind of worried Noah’s going to be major bored when he realizes the only faces he gets to see are mine and Lance’s anymore. I’ll have to buy him some more toys. Or maybe I’ll teach him how to pull Lucy’s tail tomorrow.

What else can I tell you that’s not about BARFING ALL NIGHT? Lance gave me an amazing neck-and-shoulder massage last night – oh wait. THAT’S BECAUSE THEY WERE SO SORE FROM ALL THE BARFING. Well, I tried.

Yesterday morning at about 9:00, Lance decided to go out for donuts. While he was on his way back, a car in front of him hit a dog at an intersection and drove off. The dog, howling in pain and lying there bleeding, captured the tender heart of my husband, who pulled over to help it almost without thinking. (In order to keep my optimistic view of humanity intact, I like to think anyone with any compassion whatsoever would have done the same thing, but let’s pause to admire the gentle goodness of the man that I married. Ok, unpause.) Lance looks at the dog and quickly surmises that he (or she – as far as I know no one took time to look at this broken animal’s genitals) needs to be moved out of the road, as it’s a fairly busy road and the poor thing is lying, immobile, in the middle of it. With thoughts not of his own safety or wellbeing, he reaches down to pick up the dog.

(Pause again. As it turns out, Lance doesn’t speak Dog. And, most unfortunately, this particular dog didn’t speak English. If he had spoken English, Lance could have simply explained to him that he was a friend and he was going to help and not to be afraid and he was just going to move him out of oncoming, honking traffic and then they could assess the situation together and figure out the best way to handle the Retriever’s immediate needs. See Reader, what happens next really just comes down to a lack of communication, or really the lack of the ability to communicate, like the movie Babel where no one can understand each other. But I mean… hello! English IS our national language and the better part of the world understands at least SOME English and why don’t you just go back to where you came from DOG if you’re going to live here but not take the time to learn it AM I RIGHT. Unpause.)

The screaming, bleeding, obviously terrified Golden Retriever then reaches out his open jaws and latches them onto Lance’s arm, sinking his fangs deep inside Lance’s skin. And holds on. Lance shakes him off and tries to approach him again and the dog is all YOU REALLY WANNA FUCK WITH ME?! and bites AGAIN, this time on Lance’s thumb.

Now, this is the story the way it happened. You see I learned the truth because I dragged it out of him, but THIS is the way Lance told it to ME. It’s 10:30 in the morning. I admit it, I was still in bed (bite me, I’m pregnant. Wait don’t bite me. Bad choice of words for this particular post. Moving on…), but I was awake, actually wondering if everything was ok and why Lance was taking so long, when he walked into our bedroom and through to the bathroom. Now, thank God I am like 90% blind in this one situation and couldn’t find my glasses right away (which were only a foot away on the night stand), because if I HAD been blessed with 20/20 vision, I might have seen my husband coming into our room covered in blood, and I might have then panicked to the point of passing out, which would have actually been not so bad since I was already lying in bed. (Pause. I would leave this out if I didn’t KNOW he would put it in the comments section otherwise. He swears that all the blood was the dog’s blood. I personally don’t see how he can know that, especially given the state of his arm, which I will detail for you momentarily. He says two other cars had at this point pulled over to help and had panicked also, seeing him get bitten twice and subsequently become a big blood bath. Apparently he convinced all these people also that he was fine, it was just the dog’s blood. Unpause.) As it was, I couldn’t and didn’t see him as a bloody mess. He walked past into the bathroom where he turned on the faucet and started stripping (bloody) clothes off his body and nonchalantly said this: “So, I had a bit of an adventure.”

Me: “What happened?”
Him: “Well this guy in front of me on Gallatin hit a dog.”
Me: “Oh no!”
Him: “And then he drove off without stopping.”
Me: “That’s terrible! What an asshole!!”
Him: “I know, right? So of course I pulled over.”
Me: “Of course!”
Him: (Stripped now, starting to wash what I assume are his hands but what turns out to be the upper part of his body, in the sink. Remember I still can’t see.) “So I get out of the car to try and move the dog out of the road.”
Me: “Then what happened?”
Him: “Well he was just scared so he nipped me a little and I couldn’t move him.”
Me: “Oh no! Poor thing… is he ok?”
This is about the time I’m starting to grope around for my glasses. It’s irritating to have a conversation with someone you can’t see properly.
Me: “Hey can you see my glasses?”
Him: (turning around from the sink) “Oh yeah there they are on the nightstand.”
(Pause. I’m writing all this because I want you to note the calmness of the way he is telling me this story. Almost like, hi I’m Lance and I’ve had an average day and I think I’ll just quickly wash this blood off myself and then go grab a cup of coffee. Oh, no problem, this blood is actually just red corn syrup that’s how not a big deal it is. And yeah a cute little puppy playfully nipped my finger while I was scratching behind his ears. Isn’t that sweet? Nip! Nip! That sounds so innocent you know? Unpause.)

Simultaneously I put my glasses on, notice the remaining traces of blood (he’s washed most of it away by now and his clothes are in a heap on the floor), and hear him say “do we have any rubbing alcohol?”

OH. NO.

The bites… oh man. I wish I had taken a picture of them yesterday when they looked worst so I could put them on here and you could sympathize with me, Reader. Because you would, believe me you would. You would have done exactly what I did when I saw that bulbous mass on his arm, sort of bluish and completely swollen and within it, five or six big bloody teeth marks, and then the totally swollen thumb with more bright red teeth marks in it, which is FREAK YOUR SHIT OUT. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to hit Lance or call someone for help or find some kind of gauzy bandages or just rush him out to the car all naked and drive him to the emergency room. I compromised by yelling at him and saying “ohmyGod” every time I accidentally saw the horrendous wound again while looking through the medicine cabinet for alcohol and cotton balls and trying not to picture what he would look like if he developed rabies in the next ten minutes.

We ended up at urgent care, thank God, because otherwise we would probably STILL be at the ER. (Pause again just to tell you what you probably could have guessed, which is that Lance FOUGHT ME ABOUT GOING AT ALL. Like, come on honey, this is totally no big deal. Look, that swelling will go down, I’m sure of it. And the bluish tinge should fade over time. And I’ll just keep a bandaid on those puncture wounds until the bleeding stops in a couple of months. Surely a playful puppy nip isn’t something to freak out about! Unpause.) The doc gave him a prescription for an antibiotic and confirmed that he was up to date with his tetanus shot. She seemed positively cheerful. Looking back, she was probably just really relieved that he wasn’t ANOTHER swine flu patient. She was probably excited for a dog bite. Probably hoping for a kid with a couple dozen bee stings to hobble in next. Who can blame her, I guess.

In case you’re wondering, which I was (even though I was torn between feelings of super sorry for and hatred for that dog, who mutilated my husband’s flesh so that every time he picks anything up now he says “ow” and every time he tries to bend his thumb it opens the wound up and starts bleeding again), the dog’s adrenaline must have kicked in after the second taste of human flesh because he limped into the bushes on the side of the road on three legs. A cop had pulled over to figure out why a bunch of cars were stopped at a green light and there was a skinny bloody guy and some other people looking off into the trees, and after they explained it all to him he was going to call animal control and drive around looking for a limping, bloody dog with a man’s arm hanging out of his mouth.

Honestly though Reader, who does that? Who hits a dog and drives off? If you happen to read my blog, you are a piece of sorry ass. I hope one day a dog learns how to drive and hits YOU. AND DRIVES OFF.

Really, I guess yesterday must have been Asshole Day, because I put a chair on craigslist to sell and got this girl who was all excited about it and said she wanted to come get it, and could she come here on Saturday? So we set up an appointment for 4. So, naturally, she called me at 5:30 saying she was on her way over, so I gave her directions. 6:00 went by. Then 7:00. I called her back, got her voicemail, and left a message that was all like “um, we have things… to do… if you wouldn’t mind letting me know if you’re still you know, on your way OVER HERE…. um… that would be great… um…” and never heard back from her. I guess she got caught up hitting random dogs with her car and driving away.

And while I was like stomping around and sulking and being all “THIS DAY SUCKS” and “I hope she got all lost and drove around for like two hours just LOST without her cell phone!” to Lance, he was all like “what if that really happened to her, Megan? Or what if she had a car accident or something?” and I was all “who died and made you Mother Theresa today anyway?” and he was all “can you take your grumpy pants off please?” and I was all “my other pants no longer exist oKAY” and he was like “whatever kind of bad day you think you’re having? I get the trump card. TODAY I GOT BIT BY A DOG.”

And I’m like “Dude, whatever, it’s just a little nip.”

I realize I’ve neglected writing about the OTHER thing that occupies all my brain space, which is the fact that I’ll be pushing a kid out of my vagina in OH, TWO AND A HALF MONTHS. And really, thank God summer is almost over since a) the southern heat and humidity is making my skin peel off and b) my belly is now so huge that I can no longer bend over far enough to shave my bikini line. (I figured I’d get all the TMI out of the way in the first paragraph, but who am I kidding? I’m sure there will be more coming. I mean come on, why do you come to this blog anyway, right? Right?)

So, Vanguard. The truth is I won’t be filing a class-action lawsuit, since that would require me shelling out tons of money, energy, and time just to expose them and it wouldn’t really get me anywhere anyway since probably the whole world already knows they are the reason your panties keep creeping up your butt. No lie – from now on anything bad that happens I’m going to be thinking about how VANGUARD is to blame! Also I won’t be filing a class-action lawsuit since I don’t really have a case other than this: THEY SUCK. Also I don’t really know what “class-action lawsuit” means, and I’m sure that’s important. Seriously though Reader, you would not BELIEVE the two days that we have had. It’s like there is a committee of people who sit around going “let’s figure out all the ways to screw people and make them feel like they’re being ass-raped.” And then they do each of those things. It’s too much to even talk about on here and to be honest, it’s too soon to rehash with any sense of humor whatsoever and I don’t think you decided to read this post just to be subjected to a bitch-session, so I’m done. Actually, one more thing: if your retirement happens to be with Vanguard, I highly recommend getting that money in competent hands STAT. Ok, done. On to the kid out of the vagina thing.

My belly is now so huge I can no longer see my feet, and apparently Blueberry still has 3-5 more pounds to put on before he emerges. (Did I mention the emerging is going to be happening in 10 weeks?) The nesting instinct has hit me hard and I haven’t been able to do anything about it yet. I spend countless hours online, shopping for nursery items, which I then email to myself with subjects like “rugs” or “bedding.” I have 17 unread messages in my inbox, all from myself, all full of links to baby stuff. I bought a changing pad this weekend, just because I really wanted to cross something off my list. Yes, I have a list. It’s four pages. And I keep having these dreams where the baby is born but hasn’t been able to eat or be changed or we can’t take him home from the hospital because we don’t have a car seat because all our stuff is in storage. I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my whole life.

I have my first OB appointment in almost two months tomorrow morning. Before you all start freaking out that it’s been almost two months, let me first say that you could in no way be freaking out more than I have been. You can not freak out because I have officially freaked out enough for the entire state of Tennessee. And secondly, the baby’s kicks are strong and frequent, hitting the hardest around 7:30am when I am SO not ready to be jolted awake by the power of a kick from the inside. For those of you who have never been kicked from the inside, I can only describe the feeling as a long-fingernailed hand grabbing a wad of muscle tissue every couple of minutes. It doesn’t hurt per se; it just feels really, really, freakily weird. Sometimes I think he just stretches out because I feel this claw-like tissue-grabbing pressure on either side of my belly and I’m like holding my breath subconsciously, waiting for him to finish stretching and curl back into a convenient little ball… waiting… until I push on his foot or whatever it is and he retracts. How’s THAT for alien-life form? The creepiest thing he does is like some kind of roll or something I guess, which literally takes my breath away every time he does it. All that to say I know he’s doing just fine in the incubator, even though an OB hasn’t checked my uterus for almost two months. (See? More TMI, there it is!)

The sad part about being so pregnant is that I had to take my rings off yesterday. My fingers are like fat sausages, something else compounded by the heat. I struggled for several minutes and finally managed to squeeze them off, and while my fat sausage-like finger pulsed blood back into that place where the symbol of my marriage just was, I put my rings away for the remainder of my pregnancy. And until I find a SIZE NINE sterling silver band somewhere, I’ll just look like my child-to-be is a bastard with some Baby Daddy somewhere who left me for someone hot. Which might be until after he’s born, because who carries SIZE NINE wedding band-looking rings? Whatever, I can deal with judgmental stares. It’s called being raised in the south.

Today I’m spending the day packing up the four suitcases, dog and cat equipment, various baby paraphernalia that I’ve accumulated, ponytail holders, and non-perishable food items that are currently scattered all about my parents’ house. I’ll start on THAT daunting task as soon as I waddle into the kitchen to find something else bad for me to eat and scarf it down in record time.

Good old southern woman: “So, you’re moving to Nashville!”

Me: “Yes.”

Good old southern woman: “You know, my daughter lives in Nashville. She works with the homeless. You know there are so many homeless in Nashville. I just feel so much compassion for the homeless. What do you do for a living?”

Me: “Well right now I’m not working, but I was working in the marketing department for a regional theater.”

Good old southern woman: “You do acting?”

Me: “I enjoy it, but it’s not what I want to do for a living.”

(this is where it really gets good)

Good old southern woman: “You know my daughter has a friend who is in drama and she was a wonderful actress. What was her name? For some reason it’s slipped my mind. Anyway she acted with this English gentleman and she was just WONDERFUL. She stopped acting to have a baby; she had a little girl named Elaine. And a couple of years ago I was invited to Thanksgiving dinner with her and her family and they were just the nicest family! It just goes to show you. Oh… what was her name! Anyway the father of this girl ended up killing the mother. Can you believe it? He was biking with this group of cyclists, and someone noticed he slipped away and what he did when he slipped away is he killed her mother, and because someone noticed him slip away that’s why he got arrested. But you know what he did after he killed her? He just came right back and finished the bike race. Isn’t that just awful! She was walking towards him, and he shot her three times. Oh it was just terrible. My daughter’s friend was devastated. Anyway the Lord wants us to forgive but can you imagine forgiving a man like that? But she did; recently she got back in touch with her father who of course is in prison. Probably for life. And her husband wrote that father the most touching letter.”

Me: “……….Oh……………….”

Good old southern woman: “Anyway that girl, what WAS her name. Well she was just a FABULOUS actress. Bless her heart.”