My Son Smuggled in a Shank

I don't know how it happened, or when it happened, but the baby I am carrying in my belly somehow managed to smuggle in a shank. What is a shank, you ask? Through my husband's obsession with crime/police/prison-related TV programs, I have learned that a shank is a homemade weapon/knife often molded out of toothbrush handles or bars of soap, and usually concealed in the spines of library books or under the rim of the toilet to avoid detection. Sometimes these weapons are smuggled into jails through homemade baked goods (i.e. birthday cakes) or smushed between layers of a postcard. ; ) And somehow - despite the maximum security that is my uterus - Lil D has managed to smuggle in - or perhaps even manufacture - a shank inside my womb. I'm thinking he may have used the massive amount of Starburst Jelly Beans I've been scarfing down (which I purchased under the guise of stocking Paige's Easter basket last week). Becasue, honestly, if it's not a shank, how else in the world can I be stabbed at least once a day from the inside out?

The doctors are claiming it's "round ligament pain." I call cow poop on that one! Can so-called "round ligament pain" stop you in your tracks - even when those tracks are leading straight to an amazing sale on undergarments and sleepwear at Kohls?? Can "round ligament pain" cause you to momentarily consider that your baby may be trying to exit through your hip joint?? Can "round ligament pain" feel like a Charlie Horse that galloped up to the side of your abdomen/hip and got stuck? Well - according to Google - yes. That is exactly what round ligament pain can feel like. After I decided the Dr.'s must have missed the boat on this diagnosis, I turned to my trusty search engine and discovered - lo and behold - that round ligament pain can really be that painful. And while I was relieved to find out my son isn't preparing for the remake of Prison Break, it's still hard to believe that stretching ligaments can be so bad. I guess what I am experiencing is the ligaments ceasing up - being stretched to their max, then shooting back like a rubber band and freezing there for a while. Fun.

Only 7 more weeks to go! Woo hoo!

My Marriage in Dog Years

On Monday, we celebrated our 2nd Wedding Anniversary. Woo hoo! And yes, you did the math correctly - two years married, two (well, almost two) babies. Oh my : )

And when we woke up Monday morning, Daniel said to me - "Gosh. I can't believe we've only been married two years. It feels a lot more like seven years, at least!" And you know what? I couldn't agree more! And we don't mean this in a bad way - it just feels like we've been through ALOT in the last two years - enough stuff that it should be equivalent to at least 7 years of marriage. I feel like we've both aged 7 years (note the salt and pepper hair we are both sporting now vs. our wedding photos from April 2009). And so I've made the executive decision that we should measure our marriage in modified dog years from now on. Each calendar year will equal 3.5 marriage years - therefore, we have been married 7 years. And next year, we will have been married 10.5 years. Makes sense to me, how 'bout you? : )

Oh, and I also had a birthday last week. I turned the big 2-8. I don't stress about birthdays or getting older in the least - mainly because I feel like I should be 30 by now. Why? I have no idea. I think it has a a lot to do with my former life in Public Relations. I moved up the corporate ladder relatively quickly - managing a team of 20 people by the age of 24 (the majority of whom were older than me by 5-10 years). I guess during that time I felt I needed to be perceived as older than I was - you know, a more "respectable" age so people wouldn't try to walk all over me. And while I've left that lifestyle in the past, my mindset must still be catching up to an extent. I never lied about my age back then - but I didn't openly discuss it either. Graduation dates, birth years, etc. were purposely never discussed. Strange to think about now - but at the time, I felt it was 100% necessary. There was a lot of "dog and pony shows" in those days. I'm SO much happier living as a mama - Paige doesn't care how old I am, as long as I give her big hugs and kisses everyday. And fill up her sippy cup when empty. Anyway... I digress : )


So when someone asks me my age, I always want to say "30" and have to think for a second and then answer with the truth - 28. So until I actually turn 30, I kind of feel like these years are bonus years for me. But I wonder how I'll feel when I actually TURN 30. And what about when I turn 31? 32? Maybe in the years after 30, my mind will stay stuck on the 30 mark and I'll end up being one of those women who celebrate their 10th 30th birthday when they turn 40 : ) 

Bumps, Bruises and Blood: Am I Ready For a Boy?

There is a reason why I pursued a Public Relation degree in college and not a Nursing degree like so many of my besties. And no, it's not because I liked to hear myself talk in the Public Speaking classes : ) It's because I have a major aversion to blood and bloody events. I mean, does anyone really LIKE dealing with blood? Yes - my nurse friends. But Daniel informed me the other day that I better start getting used to it because raising a boy will be a lot more bloody than raising a girl. Here's what happened:

Daniel recently took up mountain biking as part of his fitness and weight loss kick. NOTE: Does anyone else see the irony in timing? He decides to get fit just as his wife (me) gains weight like a bear preparing for hibernation while prego? I informed him I'm still keeping chocolate and ice cream in the house - a prego has got to stand her ground on some things, ya know? : ) Anyway... so the other day he comes home with a huge gash in his leg. And by huge, I mean I wanted to vomit at the sight of it. This was no little scratch. There was blood. There was openness. There was flapping skin. And worst of all - I could see layers of flesh that no one other than a surgeon is supposed to see. It was sooooo disgusting. VOMIT! My first reaction was of course - go to Urgent Care for stitches immediately! Mainly because there was no way I was about to touch that gaping hole in his leg. But he insisted it wasn't "as bad as it looked" and I just needed to clean it out and put gauze on it. I wasn't buying his story so we sent a few pics of the wound to Nurse Jill in Philadelphia to assess. She had me measure it - length and DEPTH!! VOMIT TWICE! And the consensus was that it really didn't need stitches - but I did need to clean it out and pack it with gauze. So, as the Wife of the Year that I am, I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it. And by "big girl panties" all you pregos know that I'm talking about those humungous underwear that stretch OVER my belly and have leg holes big enough to fit my ever expanding thighs. Pretty, huh?

And just when I was finishing up, Daniel sprung this on me: "This used to happen at least once a week when I was growing up. You'll become a pro once Lil D is about 3 or 4." And my thoughts? Ummmm.. not MY son! But then he reminded me that I have always dreamed of being a Football Mommy (true!) and so injuries were inevitable - unless I was hoping Lil D would become the team water boy (no!). He then proceeded to show me scars from his childhood encounters with everything from a baseball bat, to the pedal of a bike, to the time he crashed through the roof of a golf cart (don't ask...). And as strange as it sounds, that was really the first time I realized that raising a boy was going to be MUCH different than raising my little southern belle, Miss Paige. I grew up with a sister. I wasn't t tomboy by any stretch of the imagination. The biggest "wound" I received was when I cut my thumb trying to make a stage for a Barbie Fashion Show after watching the Miss Teen USA Pageant. Having a little boy is really going to rock my world - so I plan to spend these next 9 weeks or so wrapping my mind around this concept... and probably stocking up on First Aid materials. God help us all!