Another Wild Saturday Night

I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather be here than anywhere else.

Mother's Helper

"You know," Hubs said reflectively as he cracked an egg on the stovetop and dumped (most of) its contents into a bowl, "A few months ago, I never would have imagined myself doing this much cooking. But now, I'm prepared to do it forever."

I froze, unable to tear my eyes from the viscous goo that now would fester and dry on the stovetop until I was prepared to clean it up. When I finally managed look away, my eyes were drawn to the raw bacon lying idly across the bare counter, the splattered grease on the grill, and the crumbs liberally scattered across the floor.

"Oh no," I laughed hollowly. "In another month or so, you'll never have to cook again." Please God, I added silently.

"Actually, I don't mind it," Hubs said, wiping his nose before continuing to chop up a small onion. "I've discovered that I enjoy cooking."

"No you don't," I said grimly. "You just think you do. But trust me. You hate it. Hate it."

Yes, my husband has Stepped Up to the Plate. And I'm counting the days until he heads back to the dugout.

It's not that I don't appreciate the nights he fixes dinner, or the fact that he's taken over making the girls' lunches every day. I do. I really do. But the kitchen is my space, my office, and now that he's all up in my grill (literally), I'm having a little trouble adjusting. For one thing, the unspoken agreement (which I neither saw nor signed) is that I do all his cleanup. Period. This is especially problematic because, as I've demonstrated, he makes quite a mess (I mean, who wouldn't if the cleanup were left to someone else?). For another, he seems to have decided that the extra help around the house has earned him a free pass to say whatever he wants and get away with it. Like this:

Him: "You throw stuff away all the time and that's why we can't find anything around here!"

Me: "How dare you? I do not! That's so rude!"

Him: "Me? RUDE? Here I am, doing all this extra work! You're totally ungrateful!"

In fact, now that Hubs has Stepped Up to the Plate, all of our arguments are over household matters, making each qualify for The Stupidest Topic on Earth- the winner (in the last few days, anyway) being the Great Ritz Cracker vs. Cookie Nutrition Debate.

Him: Don't give Punky a Ritz Cracker. A cookie's way healthier!

Me: Oh ha, ha. It is not.

Him: Read the ingredients for yourself!

Me: Neither one is very healthy. Look, I'm just trying to put something together for her to eat in the car on the way to Target, okay?

Him: Read the ingredients! A cookie is healthier! Read the ingredients!

Me: Fine. You make the snack, freak!

What I wouldn't give for a good old-fashioned brawl over finances or ex-boyfriends. It's hard to muster up any passon for an argument about who's responsible for replacing the liner in the kitchen trash can.

So to all you women out there bitching about your lazy-ass, no-good husband who won't lift a finger to help out around the house?

Be careful what you wish for. Trust me on this one.

If Life Were a Prescription Drug Commercial

"How was school?" I asked my 16-year-old as she walked through the door this afternoon.

"Good," she said. "But I was so tired. We spent all of Human Geography taking notes and I, like, couldn't concentrate."

"Sounds like you need Focalin XR," I said sympathetically.

"The what?" she replied.

"Focalin XR," I repeated, "It's a a once-a-day treatment for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or ADHD."

"Okaaaay," she said carefully.

I smiled brightly and continued. "The most common side effects of Focalin XR in a clinical study of adults were dry mouth, dyspepsia, feeling jittery, dizziness, anxiety, and throat pain. Other side effects seen with Focalin XR include vomiting, dizziness, sleeplessness, nervousness, tics, allergic reactions, increased blood pressure, and psychosis.

"Why are you telling me this?" 16 asked.

"I don't even know!" I laughed. I put my arm around her shoulders and said in a confiding tone, "Now, tell your doctor if you have ever abused or been dependent on alcohol or drugs, or if you are now abusing or dependent on alcohol or drugs. Also tell your doctor if you have blurred vision when taking Focalin XR. This could be a sign of a serious problem."

"Whatever," she said, before bolting to her room.

An hour later, her 13-year-old sister got home.

"Well hi there," I said gaily. "Everything go okay at school today?"

"Yeah," she said. "But I had a stomach ache in third and fourth periods and I almost called you to come and get me, it hurt so bad. It got better, though."

I clucked with concern. "I think Donnatol might have solved your problem, missy."

"Donnatol?" she said. "I was thinking TUMS."

I ignored her and went on. "The most serious side effects from Donnatal are confusion, blurred vision, difficulty in urination, and decreased sweating," I said, counting each one off on my perfectly manicured fingers. "If you experience these symptoms call your doctor immediately. Take care to stay hydrated, particularly in hot weather."

"Are you on something?" 13 asked suspiciously.

"Hmm, I suppose it might be the Percocet," I said, yawning. "Percocet is prescribed for moderate to moderately severe pain. In my case, that pain would be caused by- you guessed it- childbirth. Side effects may include dizziness, light-headedness, nausea, sedation, and vomiting. Whoa!" I stumbled across the kitchen and puked in the sink.

"You may be able to alleviate some of these side effects by lying down," I muttered weakly, sinking to the floor.

"I'm gonna call Dad," 13 said, edging around me.

"Good idea," I said hoarsely. "Remind him to pick up his refills at the pharmacy on the way home."

Bruiser's First Playtime

"He's the bestest bluthah in the whole wide world!" she told me today.

The Truth is (Now) Out There

Since I'm obsessed with on the subject of breastfeeding, I might as well break the silence and speak a truth that's been closely guarded for years by legions of La Leche League Leaders.

Breastfeeding.

Hurts.

Bad.

Let me explain:

Breastfeeding feels like you're getting a five-color tattoo on your nipple.

Breasfeeding will make you literally swear your infant's tongue is made of sandpaper.

Breastfeeding feels like your boobs might just explode, really actually explode if you don't feed your newborn every two hours on the dot.

Breastfeeding causes such excruciating tenderness that your nipples ache every time you inhale. Or blink your eyes. Or move.

If I could choose whether to go through labor and delivery again or the first two weeks of breastfeeding, I'd choose labor and delivery. In fact, I'd choose two weeks of labor and delivery- a baby a day- over breastfeeding. Seriously.

The good news is that all of these symptoms generally only occur within the first ten days. After that, it gets much easier.

The bad news is that no one tells new moms that they have ten days of hell to endure before life can go on as normal. In fact, if you read breastfeeding literature, it all states very clearly that if it hurts, you're doing it wrong. Period. End of discussion. It's like there's some kind of cult of breastfeeding supervisors dedicated to keeping the truth about nursing under wraps.

Until now.

Ladies, we've suffered in silence for too long. I propose a campaign devoted to spreading the truth about nursing. We could call it Breastfeeding Sucks. (for ten days).

After I endured my Ten Days of Torture with Punky, I asked every nursing mom I knew if I was the only one who'd experienced excruciating, breakdown-inducing pain during the first few days of breastfeeding. The answer? Hell to the no.

"It hurt so bad that I'd do anything to keep my nipples from getting hard," one mom told me.

"It hurt so bad that I cried through every feeding," another mom said.

For me, it hurt so bad that I immediately sent Hubs out to buy a manual pump when we got home from the hospital. When that didn't work, I made him drive across town and rent a thousand-dollar hospital grade pump just to get some relief. And I teared up every night before bed thinking about the late night torture sessions feedings I had to look forward to.

I had hoped that the second time around would be easier- My own mother (who didn't breastfeed) seemed to think so. "Your nipples are now like leather," she assured me, pulling yet another rich nugget of wisdom from her vast store of knowledge gleaned, I can only assume, from Oprah's 20th Anniversary DVD Collection. Or possibly Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. No such luck. I did have a breast pump ready to go and several sets of Soothies, which made things a tad bit better, but as my obstetrician said sympathetically when visiting me the morning after I'd given birth, "Nothing really helps, does it?"

I wonder if breastfeeding activists worry that by telling the truth about the pain, fewer women will choose to nurse. That's my theory- although I personally would have appreciated knowing ahead of time that if I could get through the first two weeks, I could almost guarantee smooth sailing afterward.

With that in mind, I now tell every pregnant first time mom I know about the ten day rule, mostly because I hear far too many stories about women who gave up trying to nurse after a week and a half and I'm pretty sure that many of them were simply in too much pain to continue- and had no hope that it would go away if they could just hold out a little bit longer.

Feel free to leave your own breastfeeding torture stories in the comments- And for those of you who are now terrified of breastfeeding yourselves, let me tell you that your day will come- both when you spend the next year or so not having to spend any money on formula or any time sanitizing or preparing bottles, and especially when your baby doesn't catch 95% of the illnesses circulating among your friends' bottlefed kids. That alone is worth its weight in gold. Nothing can kill your buzz like a sick baby.

*Edited to add that I just reread the last paragraph and it does sound very patronizing toward the bottlefed, doesn't it? Sorry- I didn't mean to come off that way. You all have been very nice about it. I've just read so much about the natural antibodies in breastmilk and noticed that Punky didn't get sick at all until she stopped breastfeedng- so I've always attributed it to that.

This Goes Out to All the Hoochies

I'm a modest person by nature. I've never flashed anyone for Mardi Gras beads, participated in a Spring Break wet t-shirt contest or starred in an amateur sex video. But since I've become a mom, more people have seen my nipples than David Hoffendorffer's back in his Baywatch days.

Breastfeeding isn't easy for a girl who prefers to keep her ta tas hidden from the general public. You naysayers can sternly point us to closets and bathrooms all you want- The cold, hard truth is that when a baby's got to eat, she's got to eat. It doesn't matter if we're on an airplane, in a restaurant or at a baseball game; we hear our baby crying and our boobs seem to mysteriously spring out of their packaging all by themselves. Believe me, we do try to cover up, but the baby has a devilish way of ripping any extra layers off at the most inopportune moments, like, for example, when that creepy plumber with the stained teeth and lazy eye walks through the door.

In 2004 when Punky was born, this was an issue for me. Public boob flashing wasn't exactly looked on favorably by anyone except pervs and that naked woman from BlogHer. But times have changed since then, thanks to some of our favorite Hollywood celebrities. Now, because of a few brave and pioneering starlets, I can expose myself in style, knowing I'm not a lawbreaker... I'm a trendsetter.

So this goes out to Tara Reid, who I'm pretty sure holds the record for the longest recorded nip slip in history.


To Britney, who showed us her breast side on more than one occasion before embarking on a noble quest to perfect the twat shot.

To Paris, Nip Slipper Extraordinaire. Girl, your continued talent for letting what little there is hang out truly inspires me.

And to Lindsay Lohan, always eager to jump on the celebutante bandwagon. Is this a future La Leche League spokeswoman or what?

Thanks to these fearless role models, I will no longer burn in shame the next time I find my mammaries unexpectedly on display for the library storytime crowd. Instead, I'll coquettishly toss my hair and with a coy expression, search the room for any paparazzi who just might be recording the moment for the next issue of Nashville Lifestyles. I mean, why not milk the moment for all it's worth?

Bruiser, Misunderstood

I wasn't prepared for a fussy baby.

Punky was unbelievably easy- She slept six hours a night from the very beginning and hardly ever cried. I'd heard the warnings that lightning never struck twice and my next baby was destined to be a screamer, but I wasn't buying it. After all, I had made him and I'm not a screamer, so how on earth could I have a screaming baby?

And so when Bruiser was rolled into my hospital room crying and shrieking after he'd been cleaned up and tested, you could say I was dismayed. Alarmed, even. I stared at his face, flushed deep red and scrunched up with rage and doublechecked to make sure the numbers matched on our hospital bracelets. Yep. He was mine. Gingerly, I picked him up- and the crying ceased. Feeding him what little I could at that point seemed to help, too. I ended up spending almost all my time in the hospital either holding him or feeding him. And while I loved my little son, you'd better believe that I sent him to the nursery at nightfall as soon as I could. I think I know why it took the nurses almost an hour to come get him when I'd call for them to pick him up. I'm sure he kept them busy all night long.

"Oh my gosh, wait'll we put him in the carseat and try to take him home," I murmured to Hubs on the morning we were scheduled to check out of the hospital as we stared down at our caterwauling son.

"He's going to scream all the way home," Hubs replied, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and lifted Bruiser into his carseat. The crying stopped. It was a miracle. Bruiser slept the entire way home.

Once we got home and took Bruiser out of his carseat, the crying resumed. Unless someone was holding him, he cried. Every so often, I'd swaddle him tightly and put him in his bassinet. Within five minutes, would start up again. Night fell and everyone went to sleep- except me. Over and over, I waited for him to fall asleep and then gently put him in his bassinet. Over and over, a few minutes would pass and the crying would resume. Soon, it was two in the morning. I had been awake since early the morning before. I held Bruiser in my arms and paced back and forth in front of our bed, sobbing quietly.

I can't believe it, I thought to myself. We had such a happy family and now this. A jerk. I've given birth to a jerk. What am I going to do? How am I going to sleep? I've got to spend the next 18 years of my life taking care of a jerk! What do people do when this happens? We can't take him back! We can't take him back!

Yes, you could say I was losing my mind. I tried nursing him again and looked up "newborn won't sleep" on the Internet. And that's when I saw it. Page after page of parents who had been reduced to putting their newborns in their carseats in order to get some peace and quiet.

Eureka.

"Hubs!" I whispered. "Will you go get the carseat? I'm going to see if Bruiser will sleep in it."

Hubs was more than happy to oblige. I put Bruiser in and, well, you can guess what happened next.
He slept for the next four hours, and then four hours again after that. After spending all that time crammed into my stomach, I'm not surprised that he prefers being snuggled in a carseat to being laid out on a flat mattress.

The next day, my milk came in and he never cried again. Seriously. He cries less than Punky did, and that's nothing short of a miracle. I guess it made sense that at ten pounds, Bruiser was merely hungry- really hungry- and for the first couple of days he didn't get much at all to eat.

Sorry I thought you were a jerk, Bruiser. Now, I think we're going to get along just fine.

Competiparenting: Behind the Scene

Once again, I missed the boat.

Punky's about to turn three and while all her friends are smugly signed up for preschool this fall, I naively thought I had all the time in the world to decide when, where and if she'd be attending... and now, unless I'm willing to send her to Mrs. Fanny Jo's Tender Totz conveniently located behind our local Wendy's, it's too late.

From what I can gather, I've been blackballed from the Secret Society of Parents. While they get regular memos explaining when to enroll their kids in preschool, where the best dance lessons are taught and how to potty train their toddlers in a matter of weeks instead of months, I'm left in the dark, blindly groping for answers, always one step behind everyone else.

It didn't matter so much when the stakes were merely Gymboree vs. Kindermusik, but preschool? Preschool is serious. I shared my alarming discoveries in this week's Suburban Turmoil column in the Nashville Scene and was shocked, shocked at what parents are doing (even normal parents, like some of my neighbors) to make sure their Preshius Punkins are enrolled in the Right Preschool.

So check it out and then come back and dish about the lengths you or someone you know have gone to in order to get Liddle Prissytoes into preschool. I'm dying to hear more.

Introducing...

Punky!

...Who, by the way, absolutely adores her new brother and gives him a bajillion hugs a day. And who also is obsessed with breastfeeding.

"Oh no, Mommy, he's eating your tummy!" she said the first day.

"Yes, this is how babies eat," I told her.

"Gross!" she said. "That is gross!"

Yesterday, she watched us again.

"Mommy, is he eating your bug bites?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "Babies get milk this way."

"That is terrible," she said solemnly.

Right now, I'm inclined to agree with her.

Hubs is taking care of her this week and she's absolutely ruling him. She repeatedly tries to boss him around and when he tells her to stop, she shouts "Stop being naughty to me! Or you'll have to go in the corner!"

I half expect him to do it, too.

Our First Order of Business

Many of you have been asking what I'm going to call Baby now that Bruiser is born. I guess I could still call her Baby, but that might be confusing to new readers, since she's no longer the baby of the family. It would be easier to call everyone by their real names, since it's not hard to figure them out anyway, but I won't do that simply because I don't want my kids to have to worry about their friends Googling their names and finding this site. And so I'll leave it up to you. Choose your own Baby name and the popular vote wins.

What should we call Baby?
	2
	Girl
	Baby Sr.
	Punky
pollcode.com free polls

Here's the Story

Hubs and I were taking a walk Tuesday night when, for the first time in my life, I wet my pants.

I had already hit rock bottom in this pregnancy at least a month ago; wetting my pants was like drilling a large hole in the limestone. I didn't say anything to Hubs when it happened, of course- I'd never have heard the end of it. Anyway, it was only a little, so no one could tell. I figured the baby was sitting right on top of my bladder, making me go whether I needed to or not.

An hour or two later, we went to bed and I fell asleep almost instantly. Suddenly at 1am, I sat bolt upright in bed and felt a little gush.

"What?" I said groggily. It felt like I had wet my pants again, except that there was a lot more liquid there than there should have been. Oh no. Had my water broken? Panicked, I looked over at Hubs snoring beside me.

"Hubs," I whispered loudly. Nothing. "Hubs. Hubs. Hubs. Hubs. Hubs. Hubs. Hubs. Hubs!"

He kept on snoring.

"Shit," I said and got up to head for the bathroom. I was pretty sure that this wasn't pee I was dealing with, but having just read several stories about women who'd gone to the hospital with broken water, only to be told that they'd actually wet their pants, I had a bit of a phobia about it. I stood in the bathroom for a moment and stared at the clear liquid pooling at my feet. After a few long moments, the realization hit me.

"Hubs!" I shouted. "My water has broken!"

Nine days before my due date. Two days before my scheduled induction. No contractions. No warning. I hadn't planned for this possibility at all. We called the doctor's office and headed for the hospital.

When we got there, the place was packed. A cold front was coming in and the resulting drop in barometric pressure was causing broken water all over town. Thank God I took that walk Tuesday night- I'm pretty sure that and the eggplant mojo pretty much sent the baby packing. And thank God I got to the hospital when I did- They had only two rooms left and overflow patients would have to deliver in the women's center, separated from other patients only by curtains.

We were checked into a delivery room and since I had tested positive a few days before for Group B strep, I was hooked up to a fetal monitor and an IV for antibiotics. I had started having contractions, but I could barely feel them. While I was answering the nurse's routine questions, the fetal monitor machine went off and within seconds, the room filled with nurses and anesthesiologists. Inexplicably, the baby's heart rate had dropped from 140 to 60.

As my nurse began prodding my stomach, an oxygen mask was placed over my face and an anesthesiologist began firing off dozens of questions about my medical history. I realized with a shock that they were all preparing for an emergency c-section. Within a minute, though, the baby's heartrate had returned to normal. The nurse assured me afterward that it was common for the baby's heartrate to drop once like that during labor, probably because I was lying on my back or possibly, he had grabbed his umbilical cord. However, they were going to closely monitor me and if it kept happening, they'd do a c-section.

"So if it's all right with you, we'd like to go ahead and put in your epidural," she said. "That way if we have to do a c-section, we can keep you awake for it- and it also gives us about ten extra minutes to prepare."

I felt like I was cheating- I hadn't had a single labor pain. But how could I say no? I got my epidural and settled in for what would be a long wait. A long, lonnnnng wait. I had dilated to between 4 and 5 centimeters by around 6am, then stayed that way until about 2pm.

Finally at about 2:30, I started feeling intense pressure from the contractions. The nurse checked me and I had dilated from 4 cm to 9 cm within about 30 minutes. The baby, who had stayed pretty high in my uterus all morning, had dropped and I could literally feel his head between my legs. We cleared everyone but Hubs out of the room and I pushed through three contractions. At that point, the nurse called in my doctor, I pushed through two more contractions, and out he came. I couldn't believe how easy it was-and how HUGE he was when they put him on my chest. For ten pounder, he's not very chubby, just extraordinarily solid and barrel-chested like his dad. He looks like his father, too, which makes me really happy since Baby is my Mini Me.

He was purple and covered in scratches and bruises, which didn't surprise me, considering how much he'd been kicking and moving around during the last few months. As soon as the nurses took him, he peed all over everyone- twice. That's my boy!

We were something of a circus side show in the maternity ward. Bruiser was the biggest baby they'd had all week, Hubs was creating minor chaos in the hallways by being "that TV guy," and I was the talk of the nursing staff,who couldn't believe I'd given birth to a ten-pounder and had only a first degree laceration to show for it. I actually came out of this birth in better shape than I did with Baby, who was a comparatively tiny 8 lbs, 14 oz. All I can say is that some women have fabulous metabolisms and others have perfect abs, but I, I have a proven pelvis. Try to contain your jealousy.

So now comes the rough part. Breastfeeding. Sweet Jeebus, the pain of childbirth was nothing compared to the pain of nursing the first week. More later.

The Rumors are True

Yes, he's here. Yes, he was TEN POUNDS. Y'all, I told you he was going to be big!

I'll have the whole story in more detail later... It's hard to find time to write right now because, well, let's just say he's a breast man.

But it went amazingly well, was totally easy, and didn't hurt a bit. Seriously. Thank God for the epidural. My doctor was awesome and did a fabulous job. I pushed through five contractions and out he came. I think it took about 15 minutes in the end- no big rips or anything like that, thank God!

In the meantime, you can see video of our new little bruiser here. Thanks so much for all your comments- I can't wait to read through them all. And I'll give you all the details as soon as I possibly can.

Baby Bruiser Born!

Hi guys. MommaK here. I just returned home and got a message from Lindsay in the hospital. She called to let us know that she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy yesterday at 3:48 pm! He was 10 lbs and a quarter ounce & 22 inches long. She has rightly crowned him "Bruiser".

Mother and baby are both healthy and happy and will return home tomorrow. I am sure she will fill you all in on the details later but she asked that I put up this announcement as she is without internet access at the hospital (how rude!).

Congrats Lindsay!!
xo

The Great E-Mail Takeover

My daughter would like to join your rec soccer team, the mom e-mailed. We're new in town. Is it too late to sign her up?

No, my husband wrote back. You can get a form from her high school coach. Have her bring him a check for $65 and I'll make sure it gets turned in.

Where are the fields? the mom responded almost immediately. And what's the game schedule? We don't have any information.

Maybe it would be better if you give me a call, Hubs e-mailed back.

Nothing.

On Friday, Hub called the mom's cell phone number, listed at the bottom of her e-mail. "Hi," he said. "I'd really like Mandy to play tomorrow if she wants to. Just uh, give me a call and I can give you directions and figure out which position she can play."

Nothing.

Finally, the morning of the game, Mandy e-mailed, wanting to know if she could at least come and watch.

"This is like The Twilight Zone," Hubs said exasperatedly. "What is the big deal about using a phone? I've got two games to coach today. I don't have time to e-mail."

Do you not have a phone? Hubs wrote back quickly. I am not on the computer this morning.
The fields are on exit 196. It would be easier to tell you on the phone. I am leaving in 5 minutes.

She didn't show. The next day, Hubs tried Mandy's mom again. This time, she answered.

"You know, I really prefer to be contacted by e-mail," she said.

"Uh huh. I coach 32 girls and I hardly ever have time to sit down at my home computer," Hubs replied. "I need to talk to you over the phone at least once."

Duh.

Since when did it become acceptable to insist on on conducting business, particularly relating to your child, by e-mail only? I mean, I like e-mail as much as the next person, but if it's not working for the other party for whatever reason, you'd better believe I'll take his/her call. And if you don't want people calling you, why list your phone number beneath your e-mail signature?

Is it just me, or do people get stranger every day?

Unbelievable

I know a lot of you like the occasional posts over here that generate controversial comments. Well, things are heating up over at the Nashville Scene blog over my post on the childfree movement. Grab some popcorn and head on over.

Eggplant, Birth Porn and the Childfree Movement

The Eggplant Parmesan has been digested and so far, no labor, although technically I'm supposed to give it 48 hours to take effect. I realize that eating eggplant to stimulate labor is a stretch, particularly when I haven't even reached my due date, but humor me, people. This baby is kicking the stew out of me. It was a time-consuming recipe, but wow, was it good. My whole family loved it (it tastes a lot like lasagna), so if you've got the time and inclination, by all means make it, whether you're pregnant or not. Here's the link to the recipe.

Speaking of pregnancy (uh, when am I not speaking of pregnancy?), while I'm totally planning to get an epidural, I did take the prerequisite natural labor class at the hospital, just in case. Okay, actually I took it because it's always good for a laugh (you really haven't lived until you've seen birth porn). See what I mean in this week's Suburban Turmoil column for the Nashville Scene.

And did you know there are a whole lotta people out there who feel ostracized and even discriminated against because they've chosen not to have children? Well, I'm here to tell the members of the Childfree Movement that it sucks for parents, too. Read about it on the Nashville Scene's blog, Pith in the Wind.

Eggplant. Glorious Eggplant.

The first time I was pregnant, my due date came and went without so much as a Braxton Hicks contraction. I tried to remain calm, but as someone who hates being late, missing my due date was humiliating. And so resolutely, I took action, trying:

-Car rides on bumpy dirt roads
-Sex
-Spicy foods
-Sex
-Long walks
-Sex
-Shaking my fist at the sky and crying
-Sex

Despite my heroic efforts, Baby didn't come out until she was good and ready; by the time I finally started having contractions on April 7th, I had stopped doing anything but complaining. Even in the act of being born, she took her time, not making an appearance until April 9th. But a few years after she was born, I learned I could have had her on time, after all.

"You should have tried the Scalini's Eggplant Parmesan recipe," a friend of mine told me. "I had the cook make it for me at the restaurant where I was working when I was pregnant with Julia. I went into labor the next day."

Scalinis is a restaurant in Smyrna, Georgia where the Eggplant Parmesan is guaranteed to start labor within 48 hours. It's worked for hundreds of women- so many that Scallinis has an entire wall dedicated to pictures of its "Eggplant Babies."

I had been planning to make it this week and when I read that one of the news anchors here in town and his morning anchor wife had made it past her due date and were basically freaking out (in the way that only first time parents can), I went ahead and looked up the recipe and sent it to them. Heather made it Tuesday night.

She had the baby yesterday afternoon.

It was the eggplant!!!

I'm making it tonight, so wish me luck. I went to my OB yesterday and had progressed another centimeter. Given that and the irregular contractions I've begun having all day long, she said I could go into labor at any minute.

Then again, it could be another week and a half.

I've just got to trust the eggplant, I guess... I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I'd love to know what made you go into labor. Another of my friends, for example, went to a Mexican restaurant, ordered a plateful of jalapenos, ate them and went into labor that night. I'm not that brave.

And lest you tell me to let nature take its course, I'm being induced late next week if I don't have the baby spontaneously- That's why I'd like to go ahead and get things started now.

Chop, Chop

When I heard the chainsaw outside, I knew whatever was going on couldn't be good.

Across the street, a couple of guys were buzzing branches off one of two Bradford Pear trees in our neighbors' front yard. But these weren''t just any Bradford Pears. In a subdivision filled with hundreds of hardwoods miraculously left standing by the developers, my neighbors' Bradford Pears could be considered the king and queen of the group. Majestically tall and lush, blooming like mad every spring and turning a brilliant red every fall, they were absolutely stunning.

And so I watched in dismay as the branches fell, hoping I was just witnessing a really bad pruning job. But no. An hour or so later, a rope was attached to the beautiful Bradford (which had already sprouted buds in preparation for its stunning spring debut) and Baby and I watched through a window as it defeatedly toppled onto the street outside.

"Hubs," I said breathlessly on the phone a few minutes later, "You won't believe this. They cut down one of the Bradford Pears across the street."

"What?" he asked. "Are you kidding?"

"No," I replied. "I'm still in shock."

"What about the other one?"

"It's still there," I said. We both sat in silence for a moment.

"Well, I guess I'd rather have our new neighbors across the street and one Bradford Pear than Earl and two Bradford Pears."

"I know," I said. "They probably had some great reason for cutting it down- I just can't imagine what that is. At least they left the other one standing."

A week went by and I began to get used to seeing the stark, sun-drenched front of the house across the street without the Bradford Pear to shield it. By Friday, I had almost forgotten about the incident- at least until the sound of a chainsaw again filled the air.

Oh. Hell. No.

I raced to the window. The guys were back, cutting branches off the other Bradford Pear. I wrung my hands. I paced. I mulled over my options. The only plan I could come up with involved me handcuffing myself (because all I had in the house to work with was a child's set of police handcuffs) to the Bradford Pear and refusing to let them cut it down. I'd have to call the newspaper and TV stations first, of course- I could already imagine the headline...


But first, I called Hubs.

"They're doing it again," I whispered in a strangled voice.

"Huh?"

"They're cutting down the other Bradford Pear! It's inexcusable! Are they nuts?!"

"You need to calm down," Hubs said. "They're really nice people."

"I'm not disputing that," I said. "But they're making a horrible mistake! I want to look out my window and see Bradford Pears! Not my neighbor putting on deoderant!"

I tried not to think of the floracide going on across the street, but a part of me died when that Bradford Pear came down. It just seemed so... wrong. Of course, Hubs thought I was totally overreacting- at least until he went to the gym yesterday.

"So, what do you think about the tragedy of Riverlake Manor?" a man asked him. It was one of our neighbors.

"What do you mean?" Hubs said.

"The Bradford Pears!" he said morosely. "I was on the verge of running out and begging them not to cut that second one down."

"You need to talk to my wife," Hubs said, shaking his head.

Of course, I still like my neighbors. I'm not into feuds and besides, they're good people. But in a final, cruel twist of irony, I just learned that Friday? The day the last great tree came crashing down?

It was freaking Arbor Day.

Odds and Ends... and One Great Big Belly

I call this "Pregnant and Provocative." Or "Touch My Belly and Die."

I can't believe I'm doing this. It's one thing to post your belly pic after you're all nice and slim again- It's another thing altogether to do it when you weigh more than you'll ever tell anyone (including your doctor) and are wondering how on earth you'll ever look like you used to.

However, I couldn't not reciprocate after so many of you posted pictures of your third trimester selves, just for me. I'm truly touched and feeling the online love. Plus, I just had coffee with Susie Sunshine (and the lovely Nicole from Sitting Still) and she told me my boobs looked great! Now that's what friends are for!

-I write a weekly post for the Nashville Scene's blog, Pith in the Wind, and this week's post on people who use their cell phones in restaurants is worth reading for the comments alone. Unbelievably, one person is trying to justify using a cellphone in a nice restaurant- because he (I'm assuming it's a he) might need to conduct business, and the rest of us should just deal! Anyway, it's pretty funny.

-Sarah wrote a post for Strollerderby yesterday that cracked me up. Check out the picture and the comments. Good Lord, what is this world coming to? If I ever hear that you knitted naked body suits for your family, I swear, I'll try my best to have you committed.

-Oops! I wrote a column for Mamazine a few weeks ago and totally forgot to link to it. It's about something I won't do that I think a lot of you will probably disagree with. I'd love to hear your thoughts on it, particularly if you have teens of your own.

-I'm supposed to meet up with the glorious Susie Sunshine (who's traveling through TN) in a couple of hours and I'm so excited! Details later.

-Reviews! Nasal sanitizer (Bizarre, but funny!), a not-so-good book that's getting lots of attention, plus the long-awaited Dyson review and the reason (I'm convinced) that I don't have stretch marks!

This should keep you busy for a while- Enjoy!

Big Girl

Think about it- You just don't see too many nine-months-pregnant women out and about. It's not that we're invalids, sore and achy and unable to fit behind the wheels of our cars. Oh, no. It's not us at all.

It's you.

Last night, I went to a soccer game. It was the last night of the girls' season and I didn't want to miss it for anything. Plus, I still remember being stuck at home after Baby was born for several weeks, suffering from severe cabin fever but unable to take her anywhere. I figured that now was a good time to get out of the house a few last times with relative ease before the new baby arrives.

I knew all the parents would be there for the last game, so I made sure I looked good. At least, I thought I did. The faintly shocked and amused looks on their faces when I arrived said otherwise.

"Are you okay?" a mom in front of me asked.

"Well, yeah," I said, shrugging. "I mean, I'm having a baby in two weeks."

"I bet you're ready to get it over with this time!" she exclaimed, eyeing me appraisingly. "You look bigger than you did the last time you were pregnant."

"Actually," I said, giving her my best evil eye, "I gained 20 pounds less with this one. But thanks."

In my mind's eye, my decent-sized pregnant frame swelled up like a hot air balloon. But hell, there were other people to talk to... Like, um, Maryanne behind me.

"When are you due?" she asked.

"I'm having him in two weeks, no matter what," I smiled. "I have an appointment."

"Great!" she said, grinning. "Because you look HUGE."

"Huh. Thanks," I replied. "Thanks so much."

Honestly, I walked right into that one. It was, after all, the very same mom who asked me several months ago if both my babies have the same daddy.

What a mistake it was to enter the realm of moms-of-teens, women who've gone so long since the birth of their last child that they've conveniently blurred and rearranged the events of their pregnancy until they're absolutely convinced they gained no more than 25 pounds and wore their size 2 jeans home from the hospital.

I could've thought of something catty to say back to these moms, but I didn't. After all, I can lose the weight.

But they won't ever get any younger.

*Thank you, thank you, thank you to my wonderful friend MommaK for throwing me a surprise blog baby shower. What a nice surprise! Head over there and check out some lovely bared bellies if you, like me, need some third trimester inspiration (or memories)!