Firstively I have proof of my bangliness.

WOOO! Hawt mama! I think my next move will be to get them Betty Page’d. RRRRrrrrrrow~ !

Seconditively, I am 3/4 a way through a glass of wine (1st drink in a year) so this may be riddled with typos and tend to ramble off on weird tangents… I mean worse then usual.

Thirditively, there was a mishap with the fabulous hair of the Fidget clan men. As I well know, hair mishaps happen but to suffer a duel blow and have paid for it? HEINOUS! FOUL! And tear inducing. My boy, the sunshine of my life, the one with the great hair

now looks like an Army recruit.

We had no choice but to buzz him. Really, it’s true. When we got home from the hair cutters butchers this is how my poor lil guy looked

It’s all lumpy, bumpy, chunky and just plain wrong!

I MIGHT have blamed it on a wiggly toddler except the same chick totally butchered The Hubster too! His hair is sticking up funny and one of his ears is totally white walled *shakes head in sorrow*

With every passing moment I was growing more and more irate. The hair choppers was now closed so I couldn’t even vent my rage on them and instead gave The Hubster permission to do something I’ve always denied him the pleasure of doing - shaving Levi’s head.

Thoroughly delighted with finally having obtained permission, The Hubster set to work

Of course, he was totally lacking the proper shearing implement and instead tried completing his task using the cooter cutters. Now this thing may do a stunning job on my crotch carpet, but the quality on head hair is just not there.

no matter how hard you try

Stunning

so I ended up at Target (for the 5th time this week) buying a hair shaving kit. When I got home Levi had an angry monkey flip out. I personally think it was because The Hubster was in the tequila while i was gone and Levi feared for his ears

(OMG Mom, Dad’s been in the sauce while you were out, don’t let him near me with clippers! My ears, dear god, think of my ears!)

Despite the margaritas.. or maybe because of? Things proceeded nicely

Of course right around this point

when I noticed my chubby cheeked little baby was being sheared into a little man, I hit the Pinot Grigio (sometimes mommy needs a little help coping).

But in the end, about $50 and 8 hours after the first lock of hair fell over at Not SO Great Clips, things turned out ok

that is if ok means mommy bursts into tears every time she looks at her bald headed boy.

this was my night

I have no pictures of myself with all four and The Hubster was MIA with a very conveniently dead battery cellphone (grumble grumble bitter bitter) so I drew my head on his body. Yes, it’s accurate. I am totally rocking bangs now. No, really I am. I would take a picture but the people of Fiji can see my bags from here; I need no photographic evidence of that!

Back to my very rotten no good evening. It all started when I asked the girls to clean up after their toys. The whining! Oh my heavens the whining! Tessa decided to sneak off to the bathroom and hang out instead of cleaning. She kept hollering “I’m pooping!” but nay, I could see what she was up to through the crack in the door- futzing, lots and lots of futzing. So, when she reluctantly emerged to a fully cleaned living room I sent her off to clean her bedroom where the pissing and moaning lead to screaming. When i told her that she was obviously tired and needed to go brush her teeth, she kicked me. Um, what? Oh hell fuck no. I wrapped that defiant child up in her bed covers like a burrito and held her down. She screamed, she fought and she shrieked. Boden started wailing from the stress of it all and then Levi, completely bewildered by the situation, joined in.

This wail-a-thon lasted over an hour, during which i attempted to call the Hubster 12 dozen times. I may have also hexed him for leaving me alone with the heathens. I questioned my parenting abilities and then decided I must have been smoking crack when I decided that kids were fun! and why not have a whole mess of them. This was the first time since Bo’s arrival that I questioned my ability to cope with it all. Then I cried.

It was quite a sight. Me crying and seething, Bo wailing, Levi freaking out and Tessa on planet insane. Mira was the only one not in tears but she made sure to do her part- she whined, incessantly, about the unfairness of the delay in getting her corn bread with butter and honey.

Eventually I was able to sooth everyone down. Tessa even went to bed early like I initially told her- heck she fell asleep before Mira went to bed. Punishment successful (you can’t ever let this kid win- never ever- she can smell weakness and capitalize on it). Boden fell asleep in my arms, softy sighing and I couldn’t help thinking I might like 10 or 20 more. Color me nuts. Which reminds me, when The Hubster gets home i owe him a swift kick to his….

Six years, one month, and some odd days ago, I had a very traumatic birthing experience, one where my 1st official words uttered as a mother were “Is she dead?” Mira had become what everyone thought was hopelessly wedged in my pelvis by her shoulders. She turned blue, then purple then black. A nurse leaped up on to me, ass in my face and began shoving downwards with all her might. My midwife pulled on her wee little head, other nurses wrenched my legs back and I bore down with all my might. The midwife began screaming for someone to get my doctor- they were ready to break my pelvis- when Mira came shooting out like some kind of cartoon projectile. The doctor walked through the door just in time to help pink her up and hear her first weak caterwauling. It.was.terrifying. and we were lucky, very very lucky. She suffered no expected ill effects of being stuck- permanent nerve damage is always a huge concern with shoulder dystocia.

Since then, my babies have been watched very closely for accelerated growth. No doctor wants to repeat that scenario and as enticing as repeating a double episiotomy is, I’ve wanted to avoid it too. Thus Tessa was booted from the womb at 36 weeks and 6 days. Her ultrasound placed her close to the 8lb mark and doctors decided that with the known discrepancies of late term ultrasound, it was time to act. Thankfully they did. Her birth healed me.

Levi was on size watch too when he decided to make his way into the world 1 day before his scheduled amnio, which is now required to evict a baby before 39 weeks. I have a feeling that overwhelming terror of that hollow needle on my part caused my water to break.

I would hope that those of you that know me personally and my long time readers realize that I do not take the process of pregnancy and birth lightly. I have experienced the highest heights of joy as well as the deepest sadness. I make what feels like never ending trips to various doctors so I can be carefully monitored. I read and research like crazy knowing that my doctors are just that- doctors- and not Gods or some kind of omnipotent beings. I listen to my body as it speaks volumes to me, aiding me in making the best decisions I can about what goes on with my treatments. I can tell you that over the course of 3 pregnancies, it’s made my high risk doctor pull more then a few fistfuls of hair out of his head. And right now? I’m listening to my body. It’s telling me that he IS big- whether fat or or long I’m not sure but judging by the pulling, the crushing pressure and my inability to waddle more then a few feet without searing pain shooting down my legs, he’s bigger then his brother was at this stage.

I’m hoping that this little person decides to make his own way into the world before I am cornered into signing a surgical consent form. But know, that if I feel that I need to sign that consent form, I will. It will suck and I will cry and I’ll probably be fairly hysterical about the whole matter but I never again want to utter the word “dead?” at the birth of one of my children nor do I want to end up that way myself which brings me to the topic of an early csection.

If the amnio says he’s ready and the ultrasound suspects he’s too large to pass safely, they will csection me early. This will not be a matter of convince nor a choice made lightly, it will be a calculated move to keep me alive. I take 2 shots a day who’s purpose is to thin my blood. Ideally it is stopped 48 hours prior to any procedure where bleeding is expected. 24 hours is often enough leeway but “often” isn’t good enough when the prospect of bleeding out is so very real. There is a medication that can act to reverse the effects of the blood thinners but it has it’s downside too- if the dosage given is too high the risk of a blood clot forming skyrockets and determining the dosage is no exact science. It’s a total crap shoot.

In speaking with my doctors, they also have a fear that one of these days I wont make it to the hospital in time. If I wind up in labor during rush hour, you very well might be hearing about my minivan baby. Now if he is too big and I’m all hopped up on blood thinners and it’s rush hour- we have a very serious, very BAD situation on our hands. I want to avoid that.

So in conclusion to this long and winding diatribe on why I am doing my best to keep myself and my son out of danger by possibly consenting to medical procedures I am none to thrilled with, I just want to say that I hope you realize that I am thinking with my brain and not entirely out of fear. Does fear play into it? Oh hell yes. I never want to relive the first birth experience but I will not let fear deter me from pursuing the birth that I want. I also won’t let my own stubbornness to achieve my goal of a natural as possible birth endanger the life of my son or myself.

My days of puppy kicking and duckling stomping have finally caught up to me. I should have known that such heinous acts would result in bad Karma. Over the last 24 hours I have found a poisonous female black window spider in my son’s crib, suffered from a sudden 10pm flea plague, and ended up with an irreparable flat tire. I’m frustrated and angry and really tired (after having bathed 2 of the 3 dogs at 1045pm) and right about now a good puppy kicking, duckling stomping, spitting on rainbows, and childhood dream crushing session might do me some good. Oh I have a better idea, let’s try to pick out paint for the bedroom because Ive only been trying to do that for two years and if there was any way to make my day sunnier it would be by me pulling every last strand of hair out of my head.

People, if this baby comes when Levi did then I only have 6 weeks to work a miracle in my master bedroom. By miracle I mean moving everything out, painting, laying flooring, installing baseboards, moving everything back in and setting up my bedside baby station. Sometimes I feel like waving the white flag and crying into a bag of potato chips.

It’s not my gallbladder or my pancreas; it’s most likely the recalled heparin I’ve been having The Hubster inject into my body for the last few weeks.

Reported adverse patient reactions have included: stomach pain or discomfort, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, decreased or low blood pressure, chest pain, fast heart rate, dizziness, fainting, unresponsiveness, shortness of breath, the feeling of a strong or rapid heartbeat, drug ineffectiveness, burning sensation, redness or paleness of skin, abnormal sensation of the skin, mouth or lips, flushing, increased sweating, decreased skin sensitivity, headache, feeling unwell, restlessness, watery eyes, throat swelling, thirst, bleeding tendencies and difficulty opening the mouth. Some of these reactions, particularly profound and refractory hypotension, may be severe or life-threatening.

I’ve been dealing with several of the above conditions for the last few weeks and have discussed them with various medical professionals during that time. Because I am pregnant, some seem like they just sometimes come along as a side effect of pregnancy- but not when you jumble them all together in a short time frame.

My doctor wondered why I only recently started having problems. Well, up until a few short weeks ago I was using Heparin left over from my pregnancy with Levi- year old Heparin that has never been involved in a recall and came from a different lab then Baxter.

I had another bad pain attack tonight and while I panted on the floor like a dog, wishing for death, all I could think was Thanks A Lot China!

Dear Hubster,

This is the face of an unrepentant poop eater

Why might I be sharing this photo and caption with you? Anything come to mind? How about that bag full of doodie diapers that you left resting open on the floor right next to Dozer’s dog bed? Yes, that bag of tasty tush tacos which no gluttonous crap consumer could resist. You know the one that you should have taken outside but you, for some unknown reason, felt it would be better appreciated left near the foot of our marital bed. I feel I should share exactly what happened to the contents of said bag in excruciating detail.

Yesterday I found myself blithely sweeping the concrete in the back portion of the house when a series of splats and guttural hoarks broke the mood. Knowing that our massive 2 ton bullDozer has the delicate trembling stomach of a 96 year old woman, I booked it to the back door, threw it open, and propelled the dog into the yard where he proceeded to barf up an endless gelatinous stream of marshmallow like goo. Pillowy bile lace piles rested just outside our back stoop and my lunch pushed at the back of my throat, threatening to also break free.

I swung my body around drunkenly as my vision fuzzed in and out. My feet sought to propel me to the kitchen for a cool glass of water, but instead met with something cold and creamy. My nostrils flared as my body cringed from this unwelcome sensation. I peered downward and realized I was foot first in a baby bottom bomb. Squishy stinky reality slapped me hard. I hobbled my way towards the bathroom to clean up following a long brown trail that wound it’s way through the dinning room, down the hall, and to the dog bed. Haphazard and nearly invisible piles of puppy puke were sprinkled around the trail, making navigation down the hall particularly adventurous and disgusting.

It took me two long hours to contain the carnage and decontaminate our home. Two long hours that could have been used for navel gazing, toe nail chewing, ceiling sweeping or any number of other worthwhile pursuits.. or just doing that whole mothering thing where I play with, sing to, read to and nurture our young children. Two hours. But hey! You saved 10 minutes and the trouble of tying up the bag. You owe me. Big. I think I know a certain sexy Hubster who will not be allowed to shave off his curls, especially that Superman one that lazes on your forehead in that come hither fashion.

Your loving wife,

Fidget

“Please Ma’am Please I just need $20 of sales to get a slap bracelet!” I’m sure I looked like a hard up Pixie Stix junkie the way I would hop and jump, rounding my eyes out for maximum pathetic size, brimming them with tears and letting loose with the deadly lip tremble (that only really works on anyone without kids). My parents would cast me out into the neighborhood to do my school’s dirty work. My mother would not ask of her friends, my father would not take order forms to work and brow beat his employees into purchases. I was alone in this multilevel marketing scam,thrust into a seedy underworld of guilting neighbors and grandparents, of knocking *gasp* on strangers doors.

I remember myself as the only kid who went and knocked on the door of the murder house. A year earlier our neighbor had been savagely shot and slashed while in his shower, my friends father discovered him nearly a week after his demise and the talk in the neighborhood was that his ghost walked that house howling for revenge. The people who subsequently moved in were treated like lepers but being a savvy kid,I was not going to let a murder, a possible ghost and the idea that the new people might be murder loving, corpse eating, zombie freaks stand between me and the Barbie Corvette I could earn by selling $300 worth of wrapping paper, ribbons, bows, and gift tags. After securing a 69 cent gift tag sale from the meek woman who peered out the door of the murder house, I was a neighborhood hero, though in the end a hero without a Barbie Corvette. I did manage to get that slap bracelet after my mother found me bawling over having only sold $1.83 worth of wrapping paper and accessories. Grudgingly she lifted the checkbook from her purse and wrote out a check for around $18.00 worth of the ugliest gaudiest wrapping paper to ever be inflicted upon the human eye. It lingered in our closet for years, though my slap bracelet was quickly taken away at school when I dared to publicly slap it onto my wrist (the county givith and the county takith away for the next sales drive I suppose).

I spent the best years of elementary school with neighbors door shutting in my face. I can’t blame them really. How many rolls of dove stamped gold leme wrapping paper can one home truly use? How many people want to fork over a dollar for a sub par chocolate bar that’s been melting in the stinky back pack of an eight year old? And who can afford to $25 dollars for a book of coupons that will never be used, right after spending hundreds of dollars to get your kid ready for their “free” government sponsored education? Not me.

I returned her sales packet with a note stating that we would not be participating in the sales drive. Long time readers may recognize this entry, it’s a redux from last year. If the pattern repeats it’s self, next month we will be asked to sell some crappy food stuffs which we can not ourselves consume being on a gluten free diet. The following month will bring us wrapping paper then… well you get the picture and it’s ugly.
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On a different note, click over HERE and find out how to ease the pain of preteen and teenagerdom

Dear U Can’t Finish University,

Apparently the seven or so multilevel parking garages located on your campus are not adequate. I just lost a good chunk of my morning driving in circles, burning ungodly amounts of gas, trying desperately to find a parking space while my baby shrieked with displeasure and my three year old whined. You offer some very nice programs through your psychology and counseling departments, that is if people can afford to wait the 17 months it took you to work in my eldest child, but I digress on that point because this is not a rant about how sorely underfunded and understaffed your outreach departments are. No, this is a rant about 74 minutes. To be more specific, the 74 minute I spent circling your campus looking for a parking space.

My destination today was your community outreach counseling clinic. Your grad students and professors offer free counseling in exchange for the learning experience. You guide a wide variety of people though batteries of tests, simple therapies and more complex sessions which, for some people, are the only thing keeping them from hurling themselves from atop one of your many full parking structures. I know I thought about driving my minivan gangbusters style over the roof of the garage and calling it parked where ever it landed. I had these thoughts and the appointment wasn’t even for me! Due to these special circumstances, silly me expects you to have designated parking for your community clinic. Apparently the university disagrees and thinks it is perfectly fine for someone who is tenuously hanging on by a proverbial thread to throw themselves into the extreme fighting arena that is campus parking.

57 minutes into this exercise in futility, I called a friend to seek out your direct phone line via the internet but when I called the number no one answered. 66 Minutes later the appropriate person returned my call and apologized profusely, offering to reschedule for next week. I agreed and hightailed it off campus, a move which I am now regretting. I should have realized sooner that it would take me till next Wednesday to successfully locate a parking space and hike to my appointment.

In closing, I would like to suggest that you convert your newly built stadium into yet another parking structure or maybe supply all incoming freshman with jet packs. Of course, you always could just designate 10 or so parking spots to Outreach Clinic patients only.

Sincerely (pissed),

Fidget