Dear 21 Year Old Metabolism,

I never appreciated you.

You were so kind. You always kept right on moving. Even when I drank alcohol 6 days a week sophomore year in college. And when I went to Taco Bell or Perkins for the Fourthmeal after the bar closed.

No, I never appreciated you. Not even when I was zipping up my teeny tiny Abercrombie jeans and cursing you for making me "fat."

It is really true that you never appreciate what you've got until it's gone.

A couple weeks ago, I was joking with a coworker about how I spend half of my day walking back and forth from the copier. And he said, "that's good - it will help you lose those couple extra pounds."

And I was all: seriously? And he was all: seriously.

Last week, I was wearing shorts and sitting cross legged on the floor while nibbling on Olivia's feet. And I got totally confused, because who put egg cartons on my legs? And why?

Then I realized. Cellulite. Like, scary cellulite. Like, will not be able to wear shorts in public places for fear of scaring small children.

Yesterday, I accidentally made a phone call with my thighs. They are evolving into a totally independent life form, capable of making phone calls and imitating thunder. God forbid I wear corduroys for fear of starting some unstoppable forest fire.

There is nothing like 29 year old post pregnancy metabolism to make a girl wax nostalgic over you, dear, sweet 21 year old metabolism. I find it hard to believe that I would still have such a problem with my Pizza Hut midsection if you were still around.

I sincerely miss you. Because hearing, "You look great," and "You look great...for just having a baby" are not on the same level of flattering, if you know what I mean.

Please, please come back. And bring your friends: 21 year old energy and 21 year old natural muscle tone. We could have so much fun together, eating whatever we want and just generally being smug.

I love you. I miss you. You have the nicest hair.

All My Heart,
Jennepper

Play Doh and Birth.

Read Part One here. Read Part Two Here.

The last time I woke up from my delicious drug-induced slumber, the room was very full of The Serious.

But.

I was completely unable to care because my body was very full of The Tired.

When I got past the paranoia that this pregnancy wouldn't result in an actual baby (around 25 weeks), I decided that I would be one of those women who goes past her due date. I like to think that these women are running a Ritz Carlton type uterus, and I fancied myself to be running just that sort of operation.



I figured I would go two weeks past my due date, then be induced. I'm not positive where such delusions came from. Probably because I was a bit hot and bothered thinking about two extra weeks of full-pay short term disability before my due date.



As it turns out, though, I was actually running the Motel 6 type of uterus. Just the type of place where prostitutes work and drug deals happen, or where sleazy men take their mistresses on their lunch breaks. And the longer my pregnancy went, the more I believed that medical professionals were calling Child Protective Services to remove my baby as soon as possible because I was clearly unfit to gestate any longer.



Laying in my hospital bed (higher than Snoop Dog), I fully expected to wake up to find that I had been cut open. The mood in the room was downright depressing.



Much to my surprise, I woke up at 6:45 a.m. to find that I was not cut open. I was actually 10 centimeters dilated and ready to push. No C-Section. No Drama. Just game time.



Since I was ready to push close to 7, it was shift change time. Buh-bye weird nurse! Hello Jill!



Jill was my new nurse, and she Meant Business. Being that I am generally incapable of bullshit, I always appreciate someone who doesn't dick around. Especially around my Lady Business. I do not tolerate dicking around near my Lady Business.



By 7:30, Jill had me all ready to go, and said, "It is 7:30. We will have this baby by 8."

I had no choice but to comply. She Meant Business.



At around the same time, my epidural pump thingamajiggy ran out. I asked for more, naturally. Before it came, I started to feel my contractions and that was just totally not fun at all. You people who choose to have no drugs? YOU BE CRAZY.



Luckily, I still couldn't feel anything below the belly button, so my legs and Lady Business were blissfully numb. And eventually I pulled my tongue out of the anaesthesiologist's ear long enough for him to refill my pump, making my contractions barely noticeable.



Now right here is where I reveal how clueless I am: I didn't know that you waited for your contractions to push. I guess I just thought you pushed all willy nilly whenever you felt like it? And so while Jill was inspecting my Lady Business, I mentioned to Mark that I could feel a contraction a little bit. And Jill was all YOU HAVE TO PUSH ASSHOLE!



(She didn't call me an asshole. She could have, though. I get it. I am one usually.)



Pushing was easy for me. And I know that someone out there had a 10 pound baby and is having a very deep belly laugh over my ignorance. But I didn't think it was that big of a deal. Jill watched my contractions on the monitor, told me when to push, told me when to ease up or push harder. Mark stayed near my face and tried to avoid the sight of blood and guts.



And poop.



Half way through pushing, Jill asked if I wanted to bring out the mirror. Something I had no interest in using. And for some reason I was possessed to say yes.



um...



If you don't like to hear about poop, then you'll be happy to scroll on down a few paragraphs past the following picture and never think about my poop again. But if you read this blog, then I bet you enjoy poop stories. And I would never want to deprive you of any oversharing about my private parts or bodily fluids.


My Poop Story: Let Me Tell You It.


It took Jill a few minutes to wrangle the mirror out of the storage room and wheel it over.

The first few seconds? Kind of cool. I could see the head, and it had hair, and I was totally not phased by the sheer size of my ever lovin' vag. I was OK with that. My Lady Business - she is a resilient thing.

But then. THEN. I made the mistake of shifting my gaze about an inch lower.

I figured there would be poop involved. As long as I didn't have to clean it up, I didn't care. If Mark happened to see it? That was his problem. Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about - what to have for dinner, brushing my teeth, holding my child, checking my email. A little poop was close to the last thing I cared about.

I didn't consider the possibility of seeing the poop when I agreed to the mirror. And I've had three months to think about how to properly describe the horror of the reflection I saw in The Mirror of Doom.



You know how you had Play-Doh when you were little? And after you ate enough to be full of its salty goodness, you wanted to actually make stuff with it? And for Christmas or your birthday, you got one of those machines that made it into shapes? Like this:

Let's say you were to move the blue thing over a notch, so it was on the round part. Then, you squished out some brown Play-Doh. THEN, you took a knife, and cut the string of Play-Doh off? And then all that would be left was a wall of brown Play-Doh ready to be squished out?

It was like that. Except, instead of Play-Doh and a fun colorful accesory, it was my butt and poop. All nice and neatly wiped off by my good nursefriend Jill and ready to continue squishing out on the next push.

So about twenty seconds after I looked in the mirror, I said, "Yeaaahhh...I've seen enough."

By that time, the doctors were there, those lazy bastards. The nurses do all the work, and the doctors come in and steal all the delivery glory. I was informed that I needed one more good push to finish the job...

At 7:57 a.m., Olivia Audrey became real, and not just some alien in my abdomen. Jill was right - we had that baby by 8.

As soon as she came out, she SCREAMED. Wholly dissatisfied with her eviction from her cozy Motel 6 room I suspect. Both doctors said at the same time, "OH! She's tiny!" Then to Mark, "Do you want to cut the..." interrupted by a loud and clear "NO." That is a big negatory on the cutting the cord thing.

My memory is a little fuzzy at this point because things happened really fast...

I sat up and looked between my knees and could see little feet flying around.

I remember thinking that it felt really weird to be able to bend at the waist without having a baby in my throat.

Someone asked Mark if he was OK, but I didn't look at him to see what was happening because I just kept waiting to see the baby's face.

And I was really nervous to see the baby, afraid that I would hold her wrong, or I would say the wrong thing, or have the wrong reaction.

I cracked some jokes about something that I can't recall.

And then she was on my chest, staring straight into my eyes, and screaming. And I was all, "Oh hai..." and "You have your daddy's chin!" I checked out her fingers, and her feet, and I kissed her forehead on a place that looked clean.

It felt like a really big moment - like I knew that every single thing would be different forever - but I couldn't get my mind all around it. Even writing about it now, I can see it in my mind like a photograph. I think it is one of those images I will never ever forget. No other moment at the hosptial sticks out to me like that very first time I met her.

To say that I felt like a mom right then would be a lie. I didn't really feel like she was mine. Holding her felt totally foreign.

I thought she was the most beautiful, perfect baby I had ever seen. I was amazed by every move she made - she was so tiny and so adorable. I was happy to finally have her here.

But mostly I felt awkward - there were doctors and nurses constantly hovering and checking and doing their jobs but being a total pain in my ass. And then she had to go under the lights for jaundice, and we barely got to see her. And breastfeeding was NOT going well, and I had to pump with something that they must have borrowed from a local dairy farmer.

I don't think it really felt "right" until after those first few days at home. And once we started to get to know each other, then I started to feel like I couldn't remember my life at all before Olivia. And I didn't want to. And all the fertility treatments and pregnancy problems seemed really trivial.

To finish up the birth info: I did end up with a second degree Lady Business tear. I believe the doctors exact words were, "You have a second degree tear that goes up into your vagina. It's going to hurt." And it was weird because Dr. Captain Obvious had forgotten his cape. Mark said he happened to catch a glimpse of things when he walked over to see Olivia, and it looked like there was red paint everywhere.

It took a couple hours for my epi to completely go away. I was deathly afraid to poop, but it wasn't bad at all (Colace = my best friend, forevah). I bled like someone tried to kill me via the vagina, and having ice packs between my legs was completely satisfying. Pain pills were consumed like candy when offered. Overall, my recovery was pretty easy.

That's it. I'm sure I forgot some things, but that is Olivia's birth story for the most part. Now she is three months old and is ripping through her 0-3 month clothes like The Incredible Hulk.

Mother's Day and Other Such Nonsense

Oh my god, let's just say it: I haven't written the rest of the birth story.

I have, however, found a photo that compares Play-Doh to poop in a wonderful, colorful illustration of just how very disgusting things can get while you are in labor.

While you are brimming with anticipation for that post, I will distract you with this one.

*Jazz Hands*

Because you know how sometimes? You sign a contract and say you will do something? For example - and this is purely hypothetical, of course - let's say you are contractually obligated to update your blog a certain amount of times per week, except your life is SO DREADFULLY BORING yet still RIDICULOUSLY BUSY? And then you don't update your blog? Then you get a reminder to update your goddamned blog already asshole?

Yeah. So here I am. Updating my goddamned blog.

*Jazz Hands*

(Because there will never, ever, be enough jazz hands. It's like Cow Bell.)

(Coincidentally, this is exactly what I am going to look like if I don't wax soon. It is very urgent, friends.)

So anyway. It's about to be Mother's Day. And one might expect me to find that Mother's Day is, like, totally awesome now that I have a squishy baybee.

Exhibit A: Squishy Baybee




Here is my Mothers Day post from last year. And lucky for you I was still blogging at Redbook then so you will be able to enjoy twice the amount of complaining!

You.are.welcome.

It is important to note that Asian Bird Flu was number one last year. May must be a boring month for the media? That they blow a new flu out of proportion every year? Come on - at least pick a new epidemic! The flu is so last year.

(May I suggest a topic: the staggering amount of morons who have babies every day and shouldn't, and how nobody cares because OHMYGOD OCTOMOM and JON AND KATE ARE BREAKING UP, STUPID INFERTILES!)

(I just read through this and I swear, I need to stay on topic. This is ridiculous with parenthesis and randomness. My most sincere apologies.)

OK. Mother's Day. Not really a fan. Just like I don't like Valentine's Day and Sweetest Day: They are just holidays that seem to be created for the purpose of selling cards, flowers and candy.

Call me crazy, but I'd rather get a nice gift or a surprise on a random day. Just to, oh...I don't know...celebrate my general fabulousness?

We will buy gifts for our moms. I will (gladly) take anything free from any restaurant because I have a dirty love affair with food. I will blow raspberries on Olivia's belly to make her smile so that we can get a good picture.

I won't be bitter like I was last year, and the year before. And the year before.

I will remember all my friends who don't get to mock mother's day, and who will probably stay at home and cry (or try not to). And I will keep my fingers crossed that you get some good news soon.

I won't ask every woman I see if they are a mother. Because you never know what someone is going through. And nothing is worse than having just gotten your period/having a failed fertility procedure/having a miscarriage and venturing out for some comfort food, just to be slapped in the face by a seemingly innocent question.

I will appreciate how lucky I am.

But I better get a good gift.
(I'm looking at you, Mark.)

And I Feel Fine

Or: The One With the Labor

I’m doing this in two more posts because I will never finish it otherwise. I don’t know what kind of moron thinks that they will have ALL KINDS OF FREE TIME after going back to work while wrangling a 10 week old in the evenings. Probably the same one who thinks that her regular pants will fit after she loses all her baby weight even though her stomach looks like delicious pizza dough.

(A really, really big moronnepper.)

I was in labor on my own, but not really. I probably would’ve been at home for another 10 hours or something ridiculous if my blood pressure wasn’t high. So that meant that I still had to deal with Pitocin.

And I was pissed, because I heard so many horror stories about Pitocin. For Example: Just kill yourself if you have to do Pitocin. Stuff like that. But as I mentioned before, it didn’t hurt all that bad (but you’ll see, I’m all about the drugs, doooode).

The Pitocin wasn't moving me along enough so they broke my water.
And OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.
It was so gross.
I mean really. I gagged. It was like this:


I'm not even kidding. The medical professionals needed actual rescue boats and life vests to even enter my room. And that was after signing extensive legal release forms because it was a total enter at your own risk situation. And seriously? Just when you thought there couldn't be more water?


THERE TOTALLY WUZ!
I don't even know how to describe it. Like, if someone shoved a swimming pool directly into your Lady Business, then pulled the plug, then tried to cover the plug with gum, which stopped the gushing for a while until POP! Another gush! That's the best I can do.

After having contractions for a few hours, the nurse asked me if I wanted any medication to help with the pain. To which, predictably, I said: I want my epidural thankyouverymuch. And she told me that I had to wait until I was at least 5 or 6 centimeters but would I like some morphine?

Morphine?
OK!

I’m not much for drugs. (aside from those drugs that facilitate the growth of multiple eggs and thickening of my uterus and caffeine. And Aleve. And DayQuil. And wine.) (OK, maybe I am for the drugs?) I will usually suffer through muscle aches and head aches and ridiculous cramps before I take anything.

I just pass on grass. I talk smack on crack. I wish death on meth. Etcetera.

And good thing, you know? Because OH MY GOD that morphine was, like, a little piece of heaven. Or maybe a big big piece of heaven. Or maybe I died and went to heaven and just imagined that I took morphine. I can totally see how someone could get hooked because my mood improved significantly after the morphine. Childbirth? EASY! Bring it on! I’ve got DRUGS!


So I’m in labor. But I’m all high, so I don’t care. One of the doctors asked me if I wanted my epidural, and told me I could have it any time. And for some reason (probably because I was all high) I told her that the nurse said I couldn’t have it yet.

Commence Argument #1. Oh my hell. The nurse comes back in and apologizes for “the misunderstanding,” and says that she didn’t think she said that I couldn’t have my epidural yet, and says that she should have made herself more clear so that I could understand what she meant.

Whatever, lady. I’m all high. You could tell me that my ass looked fat and I would probably just give you the thumbs up. You want to be passive aggressive toward me because you made a mistake? Well, that's fine. That's great actually! Now, bring me some ice chips while I ride this happy morphine high.

Eventually, I got my epidural. It was so easy that I felt like a total asshole for being worried about it for so long. I couldn’t feel anything below my chest and it was all that I thought it would be. And more. The combination of numbness and morphine high made for a fantastic night of sleep.

In fact, I slept so well, that I barely noticed when a posse of medical professionals came, spread my legs, and got elbow deep into my Lady Business. This happened approximately 497 times. I remember waking up a couple times to find the top of a head bouncing around down there, and just hoping that it was actually a doctor and not room service or maintenance.


There were a few scary and sucky times. I was pretty nauseated a few times, sitting with a barf bucket. I didn’t really think I was going to throw up but wanted to be prepared because who wants to throw up on themselves while numb from the waist down? Not me.

It was so annoying, because EVERYONE who came in the room while I was hovering over my bucket asked, “Are you nauseated?” No, I just like holding this under my face. I think it makes me look awesome.

I never did throw up, though.

There were a few times when all the alarms on my machines went off, and they had to come flip me over so that Olivia's heartrate would regulate.

Hands down, the worst part about labor was the shakes. And by the shakes, I mean THE SHAKES OMFG GAH! I had bouts of uncontrollable shaking. I wasn’t cold or anything but I couldn’t keep myself from making cold noises like “buuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrr” and “uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Even though I wasn’t cold, I kept asking my weirdo L&D nurse for blankets.

Which was the start of argument #2, because one of the nurses had to lay the smack down on weird nurse when I spiked a bit of a fever being under 10 blankets. I believe it went something like this: It is your responsibility to tell the patient that she cannot have more blankets because the shaking is part of labor and has nothing to do with being cold.

This argument was swiftly sidetracked by two things: my wiley cervix, and my piss poor platelets.

Argument #3: Centimeters – they are not inches. Tis for sure.

I was so excited when I was roused awake by my weird nurse to the news that I was dilated seven centimeters. Because, you know, all the hard work I was doing. Being high and sleeping. It was difficult.

But I figured that I’d be able to freely eat carbs again after just 3 teeny tiny centimeters and some pushing, which is just so freaking worth it when you haven’t had carbs in 4 months.

That, and, you know, the baby.

A few minutes later, another posse of hospital dwellers made their way over to the main attraction (my vagina) and declared that lo! Weird nurse is a liar! This bitch is only 3 centimeters! And I was all, “wouldn’t you know the difference between 3 and 7? I mean, I know it’s not inches or feet or whatever, but that is a big difference.” And they were all, “we’re going to have a meeting to discuss this because Pitocin and progress and blah blah blah.”

After much deliberation, it all remained a mystery. (I think weird nurse was right, though, because I did start pushing about 3 hours later.)

I think they decided that they didn’t care about my cervix because there was a more serious situation a’brewin. I had high blood pressure, swelling, slightly elevated liver enzymes and low platelets, and right upper quadrant pain.

Which is BAD BAD BAD, apparently.
Like, so bad, that a bunch of nurses and doctors come in your room and talk about what to do with you like you are not there while you and your husband look at each other and shrug. Bad like that. Bad like discussion of pre-eclampsia, and HELLP Syndrome, and emergency C-Section.

Total buzz kill.

(I am not trying to create some sort of awesome cliffhanger here. It was all fine and eneventful in the end. I mean, I MADE LIFE, so it wasn't wholly uneventful. You know what I mean...)


And how perfect! My lunch break is over, and now I have to stop stealing Panera's WiFi from their parking lot and actually return to work, where I am very busy and important and whatnot and stuff.

(Or where I am a total bitch slave. One of those.)

----
See Part 3, or The End of These Ridiculous Posts, here.

I Can Haz Apple?

Yes, this is Baxter chewing on my iPhone.


And that bone sitting right beside him? Completes me.

I like to imagine that he at least thought about chewing the bone before going after my iPhone.

I caught him with it in his mouth, and he dropped it then put his paw on it. He is a bit of an asshole.

(I am working on my birth story. I swearz. It is really long so far and talks about my vagina and poop. I am sure you are glad and also very excited.)

The End of the World As We Know It

Or: Olivia's Birth Story.

Well, the beginning of it anyways.

I have to make a confession: I don't like reading birth stories. Most of the time, they are filled with way too many uninteresting details and since I have the attention span of a monkey on crack, I cannot finish reading loooooooong birth story post.

So that is why I put off and put off writing a blog post. Because I know that nobody cares what time I got an IV (7 O'Clock) or what I was wearing when I found out I was in labor (clothes. I was wearing clothes). But I am going to post it because I've gotten a bunch of emails (14) and a few comments (3 or 4?) asking me to post it.

On Thursday the 12th, I woke up to a...gush. (Or, what felt like a gush until they broke my water at the hospital and I learned what a GUSH really feels like!) I had fluid and mucous all down my leg. One of my favorite ways to wake up? Is to slime on my leg. Delicious.

Now. The responsible thing to do would be to call your OB and see what they think. That would be the responsible thing. The Uber Pregnant Jen, however, decided that she should wait until after her highlight appointment to call the doctor. Because what if they made me go to labor and delivery? What about my hair? ROOTS! GAH!

After my highlights, I called the OB. They sent me to labor and delivery. My hair looked awesome.

It turns out that I didn't leak amniotic fluid, so after 3 hours I was sent on my way. The rest of the night was pretty uneventful.

The next day, FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, I had my 38 week appointment. I planned to argue with Sexy Suzie (my hot OB) because I didn't want to be induced. We had our ultrasound first, then we went into the room for my weekly nonstress test. The NST was perfect as always, and the baby was measuring at 6 pounds 12 ounces. Gestational Diabetes my ass!

The nurse came in to take my blood pressure. I was sad in the first place because my favorite nurse wasn't there, and instead we had to talk to Snaggle Tooth Nurse who goes on and on and on about the most ridiculous things before she does what she needs to do. And I'm not sure if you heard? But I'm impatient and slightly bitchy at all times. So she annoyed me.

Anyway. The blood pressure. She took it, said, "Hmmm..." and walked out of the room to get the doctor.

Shit.

You figure it's pretty bad if they don't even tell you what it is, right? It had been creeping up every week, and I was pretty swollen, but they didn't seem concerned until now.

Sexy Suzie came in and said that I had to go to Labor and Delivery AGAIN and have my BP monitored. If it didn't go down, I would be induced that night. If it did, I was to go in on Tuesday the 17th to be induced. Just to dig the dagger in a bit deeper, she said that she was going to let me go until my due date until my blood pressure was so high.

Shit.

I didn't ask what it was. Because the whole thing was scary and I just figured I'd go to L&D again and come home late again. But we did go home and get my bag just in case.

Good thing!

My blood pressure did come down, but my cervix and uterus, those tricky bitches, had different plans. I was having contractions and dilating on my own!

The one thing I always wanted to know and could never get a good answer - What do contractions feel like and how bad do they hurt? And my answer is: Meh. I didn't really realize I was even having contractions, I just thought I was kind of crampy. Like, I was going to get my period in a few days. Of course, I have been known to curl up into a useless ball of painful cramps during my periods. So you and I might have different points of reference.

Also? I got an epidural. Because any time pain is unnecessary? I avoid it. Call me crazy.

Upon hearing the news that I was in labor, my very first thought was: I am so glad I ate that Chicken Tender Melt from Perkins for lunch. I'm sentimental like that.

After calling the parentals to let them know, we were whisked off to a labor room, I was hooked up to an IV, and all we had to do was waaaaaaaait. And TEXT. I think I sent and received eleventy thousand texts that night.

My nurse?? Was...interesting.

She looked exactly like this:



Except she was wearing scrubs.


You know when you go to the bank? And you get stuck with the new teller, who has someone looking over her shoulder and saying things like, "make sure the ones don't stick together!" And you're all Sonofabitch This Always Happens To Me? And you watch all the other lines disappear before you even get started?

That's kind of how it was in Labor and Delivery. I had the new nurse, who had old nurses looking over her shoulder and questioning her constantly.

Except I was at the hospital and instead of dollars we were dealing in vagina.

(I will finish soon. I have to get ready to go see Chelsea Handler tonight. I hope Chuy is there...)

My Life: Tis Different.

I mean, duh. Right? Today was Olivia's two month check up. And for some reason, I was compelled to look back and see what I was doing this time last year.

This time last year, I was miserable. MIZZZZZRABLE. My first IVF failed. I had to continue with my normal routine and act human when all I wanted to do was pull the covers over my head and sleep until Christmas.

(I would've lifted the covers to fart, though. I have a strict No Farting Under the Covers policy. A policy which Mark defies. This is why we use separate blankets. I refuse the possibility of a Dutch Oven. Separate blankets is how we avoid divorce.)

(I also have a strict No Farting in the Car policy. For similar reasons. I basically just don't want to be trapped in any place that holds the smell of ass.)

Thinking about it now, I don't even know how I did it. IVF seems like a blur. It's almost better that I was working full time and going to graduate school at night, because I don't know how mentally stable I would've been if I had more time to think.

If I'm being honest, I almost never think about it anymore. Olivia is here. She is here, and how it happened really doesn't pop into my mind anymore (except when people say things about the fricking Octomom, which, dammit I wish she would just fade into obscurity already). And that is freeing, people. It is amazing to no longer be consumed with infertility.

It won't last forever. I'm sure at some point, we will want to try again. And I don't know if it will feel the same as it did before but I'm sure that the second round will consist of much suckage.

But right now, I am consumed with my squishy little baybee who suffered through 2 shots today and who has been sleeping it off for the past 4 hours.

At two months, Olivia weighs 8 lbs 14 oz (10th percentile). Mark thinks we should put her on a diet because she is really tanking up.* She is 21.26 inches long (10th percentile), and has a noggin circumference of 15.06 inches (50th percentile).

The shots were sad, but not as bad as I expected. Nothing of note really happened, except I may have made an inappropriate comment about how I would leave my husband for Dr. Karp** (author of The Happiest Baby on the Block) if given the opportunity. A joke which, surprise surprise, I don't think the pediatrician got.

Or if she did, she didn't think it was funny.

*Kidding. Kidding. Kidding. He was kidding.
**I'm going to post about this soon. Because Oh My God That Shit Works. ***
***Also, I'm going to post my birth story soon, just for the anonymous person who asked so very nicely.

Two Months, Five Hundred Names

This second month has been nuts. When I call the pediatrician, they know who I am when I say my name. I think Olivia is that patient who has that mother who calls about everything.

We've gone from, like, NO SLEEPING AT ALL EVER! To sleeping for FIVE HOUR STRETCHES and SOMETIMES SIX EXCLAMATION POINT.

Mark thinks that Olivia is never going to learn her name. Because I think of something new to call her every day. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes twice an hour. In no particular order:
Olivia. O. Livie. Liv. Livie Lou. Livie Lou Lou. Livie Lou Lou Lou Lou LOU! Lou Lou. Honey. Honey Punkin. Punk. Punky Brewster. Sweetie Peetie. Stinky Linky. Stinky Linky Linky. Chubby Cheekers. Chubby Cheeky. Chubby Cheeky Monkey. Pretty Girl. Pwetty Gwirl. Bootiful Girl. MAH BAYYYYBEEEE!

Is it worse to not know your name? Or to answer to, "Hey, kid!"

Olivia does a lot of the same things outside of my uterus as she did inside. At all of our ultrasounds, Olivia had her hands on or around her face. And she still does that!


And she is awake at all the same times. Every.single.night during my third trimester, I would bolt awake at 3 a.m. and wonder if my uterus exploded, only to find that it was just Olivia trying to bicycle her way out of my belleh. You can always count on Olivia being hungry at 3 a.m. And she's always awake at 10, 1, and 6 - her most active movement times in utero.

Much like her mother, Olivia loves to eat. Loves it. In fact, she screams when you take away her bottle. Which explains the recent development of rubber band wrists.


Not only does Olivia look exactly like me, but it appears that she may be plagued with my odd body shape (sorry, O - just get used to the fact that no pants will fit you right. Ever). Right now, she has outgrown her newborn clothes, but 0-3 too big. So most of the time she looks completely ridiculous, because I try to force fashion upon her because there is so much baby Gap in her closet and it goes so well with her new NOMable chubby thighs.

Leave my thighs alone, mom. Seriously.


The newest glorious thing to happen is that Olivia loves her cradle swing. LOVES her cradle swing. Like, will sleep in her swing for 3 hours during the day. Which causes me to wonder...is Fisher Price two people? Are they men? Because I love the cradle swing so much that I would totally, totally make out with one or both of them.

The reflux. Sometimes better, sometimes not. There is no more blood in the stool, so we are just waiting until the May 1st appointment with the gastroenterologist to make sure everything is OK. We're sticking with the Alimentum, Rice Cereal, and Zantac.

5 Weeks: Oh, hello mother. This thing is WAY more interesting than you and Daddy.


6 Weeks: Tummy time is the worst, people.


7 Weeks: Did somebody say fresh diaper?


8 Weeks: This crib is a total waste of space. Taking photos in it makes the cost seem justified.


Two months! I swear, babies age in dog years. We keep looking at toys, and all of the 3+ month toys are SO COOL. And it is crazy to think that Olivia will be able to play with them in another month. And in another month? She will be a quarter of a year old.

Elton Johnnepper...her future's so bright, she's gotta wear shades.


I think we're going to have so much fun together.

My First Period

Well, not my first period, like, ever.
Just my first period since my vagina went from being an area of little acclaim to A PORTAL TO LIFE.

Granted, it came very unceremoniously. Nobody took me to the tampon and pad aisle to pick anything out, and I wasn't subjected to a pregnancy/STD/God Will Hate You If You Have Premarital Sex talk.

I did, however, have a talk with my gynecologist about my plans for birth control, because I'm not sure if you heard? But you are just so damned fertile after having a baby!

Which, HA HA. That is hilarious. She should blog.

The other thing that happened at my postpartum appointment: I am cleared for S-E-X with my H-U-S-B-A-N-D. Which is S-C-A-R-Y because of the second degree T-E-A-R that I had even though I had a 5 pound peanut baby.

(I feel the need to spell things out because our moms read my blog, and I don't want them to think that we actually do it. Because we don't. Do it. The baby came from science. Stop thinking about us doing it.)

When I had my exam, it hurt. Which sucks because it was a one finger job, and being cleared for S-E-X is pretty useless when a finger hurts and your husband's P-E-E-P is definitely B-I-G-G-E-R than a finger. And the last thing I want to do is to try to have S-E-X and have it end up like a scene out of The Shining.

(REDRUM is not sexy)


Hey! Speaking of blood! Olivia has more of it in her diaper. This is, as you can imagine, fucking fantastic. The pediatrican upped her dose of Zantac, which...psh. Whatever. And also gave me test strips to use for three days to see if she has blood in her stool for three days. Which is pointless, because you can SEE the blood.

But still, I am scraping poop from her diaper onto a stick and putting it on these test strips because FUTILITY: IT COMPLETES ME.

I have already scheduled an appointment with a pediatric gastroenterologist, but can't get in until May 1. Which is awesome when your baybee has reflux, milk protein allergy, bloody stool even on Alimentum, ridiculous gas, and lots of grunting.

The very nice lady who answered the phone at the gastroenterologist office told me that if I had my pediatrician call, they would get her in earlier. So I'm waiting for that to all go down.

If it doesn't, then I'm going to have to bust out the raging demanding bitch mode. Which probably makes for better blog material! And who am I trying to fool? I love using raging bitch mode, especially when I have such a justifiable excuse!

One and a half weeks until I go back to work.
Three weeks ago, I was so relieved that this would all be taken care of before my return.
Which, HA HA. I am hilarious. Good thing I blog.

Mister Yuck, Look Out!

You're about to be replaced!

After last week's post, We did end up getting a prescription for Pepcid on Wednesday. I did not have to shove the bottle of Maalox up the pediatrician's ass. It was really a win-win situation.

I wish that was the end of this ridiculous melodrama. But no. Pepcid didn't do anything. Unless you count the hunger strike it caused, or the additional two copays to the sadist pediatrician.

Since Olivia didn't lose any weight from her babyrexia, the ped decided to give us a prescription for Zantac.

What's that you say? Why Zantac, when it does the same exact fucking thing as Pepcid?

Well, why not? I enjoy dicking around with the general satisfaction level of my newborn. It is funny to make her cry, because she looks EXACTLY like her mother when she does so. Like here, in a photo that I like to call "Mom, this hat is ghey":


Alternate title: Easter Blows.

Olivia absolutely refuses to swallow her Zantac. Not even when I blow in her face. Or when I hold her head up so that gravity is on my side. Not even when I do teeny tiny squirts. She holds it all in her mouth and spits it all over her pajamas.

Good news: her pajamas are reflux free.

If you would like to know what baby Zantac tastes like, follow these simple instructions:

1. Go to your bathroom cabinet.
2. Remove the crusty old tub of Vicks Vapo Rub that you've had for 3 years.
3. Scoop out a large glob.
4. Open your mouth.
5. Place entire glob on tongue.
6. Swish around.
7. Swallow.

I know from experience. Because after Olivia spit out every single dose of Zantac that I gave her, I tasted it just to see what all the fuss was about. And to tell you the truth, I can see why she is pissed off because I only licked the dropper and OH MY GOD I TOTALLY GAGGED.

Reflux: likes our house, plans to stay.
My daughter: the new mister yuck.
(I plan to lobby for a hot pink sticker instead of green.)

I'm going to call tomorrow and see what else they want to do to prolong Olivia's suffering. Perhaps we can hang her by her toenails? Or maybe we could tickle her nose with a feather so that she sneezes all the time? I think we should just pinch her really hard so that she forgets about the acid burning her throat.

In the interim, I'm trying to get creative about all this reflux bullshit.

The carseat formerly known as A Sleep Miracle? Not so much. It seems like it is bothering her to have her legs crunched up.

I read that propping her at a 30% angle would help. So I basically had to bust out some serious motherfucking math. Which sucks, because I almost got a D in geometry, and I think the only reason I got a C was because the teacher felt sorry for me for being so morose.

But I figured it all out by drawing a picture of a 90 degree angle, then splitting it into three, then translating it into the carseat jimmy rig. I looked in my desk for a protractor, but it turns out that I'm not a nerd and don't have one.

It's sort of working. We've got a growth spurt on our side - she has been sleeping nonstop for three days.

Olivia is 7 weeks old today! She's so alert when she decides to stay awake. We've gotten a few smiles that seem real (as opposed to fartsmiles), but they are on her terms. I haven't figured out how to really make her smile. She likes her swing now, and still despises her bouncy seat. Baths are a little piece of heaven; tummy time is a hunk of hell.

BUMBO: forcing children to meet their milestones months in advance.


Eat, poop, or cry? Eat, poop, or cry?


OOOOOHHHHH! Mah hands!


I go back to work in two weeks. Just typing that gives me a stomach ache. It was so much easier to think about leaving her with someone I don't know when she was just an alien in my stomach. Now that I know her, I can't fathom how someone could care for her the way she needs.