One Year Ago Today...

...This was me.

I was just about as pregnant as this lady is physically allowed to get...and you can tell. Not only by the watermelon protruding from my abdominal cavity, but also by the look in my eyes. Even through dark sunglasses, you can tell that this is a woman Who. Is. Done. 

I had been [erroneously, I think] diagnosed with gestational diabetes. (By one point! The Russian judge was unimpressed.) I was Done with eating sugarless "treats." I was Done with stabbing leg cramps, debilitating nausea, and a terrifying need for red meat. 

And it was around this time when The Doubt set in. The "maybe we rushed into this" kinda doubt. The "am I ever going to have time for my first kid" doubt. The "giving birth is not so awesome, maybe I can file a stay" doubt. So how did it end up? 

Spoiler: Roughly 24 hours later, while introducing my two daughters to one another...I got to experience the single greatest moment of my life.

And I really don't think the morphine can take all of the credit, either. 

The Story Of The Monkey.

So this is the story of Susannah Mae. I will attempt to toe the line between crazy gory details ('cause there are people who really, really wanna know) and uh, non-crazy gory details. 'Cause there are definitely people who DON'T.

And pardon in advance my odder-than-usual vernacular, as well as the moments where I appear to be trailing off mid-sent...

The drugs are my friends. Anyway.

On the morning of the 4th, we set our alarms for 5am, knowing that we had to be at the hospital for 6am sharp. Of course, this meant that I wouldn't get to bed 'til 11pm, waking three times with various concerns, needs to pee, and at least one dream where I had missed my alarm, was informed that I needed to go change Nora's diaper since I missed my surgery anyhow, and consoled myself with a sandwich.

I woke up really tired (but without having succumbed to said sandwich) and after P.J. finished packing (I had been packed for Exactly. Two. Months), we jaunted down Lake Shore Drive and checked ourselves in to Chez Prentice. (There was a woman whom I allowed to check in ahead of me, as she was In Active Labor And Was Not Pleasant To Be Around. I wished to move her along.)

Somewhere between the third blood draw, second hospital gown draped over me (backwards, natch, over the frontwards one- it covers slightly more area), and first I.V., I began to have doubts that this whole second kid thing was a good idea. Turns out, by this point, no one really cares about pausing the shebang until one gets one's courage back up. So, sometimes, one needs to fake it. Which works really well until an O.R. nurse soothes said patient and commends her bravery in a nice voice...causing the patient to well up and completely ruin the facade...which generally results in a ridiculously nice team of anesthesiologists to take turns holding the patient's hands while talking and joking her through an impossibly pain-free spinal. (Seriously. My only slight owie jolt was the first numbing needle, which, upon my flinch, caused every single person in the O.R. to rush over and tell me how wonderfully I was doing. I later commented that giving birth in front of an applauding team of twenty was the ONLY way to do it.)

Okay. Gory details time. BUT FIRST- may I state again for the record how incredibly pain-free the actual c-section was? 'Cause it was. I felt nothing. Not the broken popsicle stick test (I swear to God that is a real measurement of pain after numbing medicine is applied- they also said they had a paper clip they sometimes used to prod the thigh, hip, rib cage and sternum to test how high up the numbing goes), not the first, second, third (and on and on) incisions, and certainly not the cauterizing thinger- though I definitely could smell someone's burning flesh. Poor fool. By the time they invited my questionably married husband to look over the divider and inform me what we now had, I wondered what sort of mutilated carcass he'd see on his wife. I still don't know. But even after the crazy tugging, weird sounds, and elephant-like pressure on my rib cage to shove the kiddo's legs out (the ciiiiiircle of liiiiiiife), I was still off the charts excited to find out who this new little person was.

The one who really dug liverwurst. And melon. And making me sick as a dog for thirteen weeks- though that also might have been the liverwurst and melon.

And P.J., looking over the curtain to see the kid's head still emerging from my abdominal cavity like some bizarre cross between E.R. and Alien (he thought it was AWESOME, by the by), said in a quietly pleased voice- "It's Susannah."

BFFs.

And I cried because I was so happy.

Because she had a head full of the thickest, blondest ducky hair I had ever seen. And- when she eventually squinted them open- the brightest blue eyes. She had the Schoeny mouth, of course, wide as anything and tilted like a bow. Her skin felt like velvet and her chubby cheeks promised to be superbly kissable. I could already tell that we'd be great friends.

And once they'd unstrapped my arms from the T position, placed me on a board for transpo onto another gurney, and dangled all of my wires and tubes from the appropriate hooks...they placed her in my arms. And it kinda didn't matter that I had just undergone the complete opposite of a natural birth, nor that I'd feel like a Mack truck rolled back and forth on my belly in a matter of hours. As I looked into Susannah's weary face (I hear that, sister), I once again had the realization that it wouldn't have mattered if they had removed her from my ear canal with safety scissors.

It was worth Every. Single. Frightening. Pain. (Isn't it obnoxious when mothers say that? Even more obnoxious is when they're right.)

And sure, the past couple of nights have not been amazing, physically or emotionally; due to my gestational diabetes, Suzy's been subjected to way too many blood tests, tubes, force feedings, heart monitors, and an overnight in the NICU. But luckily we've been able to be with her nearly nonstop. P.J. especially has made a habit of chasing her rolling bassinet down the hall with whatever cranky night nurse  is currently finding him a pain in the ass. (And he has the 45 minutes of combined sleep since Tuesday morning to prove it.) We've had some lovely angels on our side, too, especially the NICU nurse who lobbied for our daughter to be sprung and sent back up to us. (And she made P.J. melt like a summer popsicle when she fashioned a bow for Suzy's tiny cap.)

But now the two gals are catheter, I.V., and needle-free...and the guy is slightly more rested. And tomorrow morning we'll all be going home, where a positively ecstatic biggie sister has already given Susannah Mae permission to play Sleep Tight in "the baby's room."

Little Miss Bow Hat.

There's kinda nothing better in the universe- not even the super white tuna sushi on its way to my hospital room right now. (Though- oh my God- so, so SO close.)

And now we'll go snuggle our little Monkey close while we watch our favorite shows and drift into a blissfully medicated sleep (okay, maybe just me).

But I know I'm not alone in thinking that life as Peej and I know it has just gotten a heck of a lot sweeter.

T Minus WHAT?!

Donesville.

Okay, this is getting nuts.

By tomorrow morning at this time- if all goes according to plan- I will be holding the newest member of the mini Schoeny family.

Which blows my mind right outta my head and plops it onto the dining room table, which I have yet to stop dusting.

It's very strange to know precisely when your pregnancy will be done. And at the same time, you almost wish you'd go into labor (regardless of how wonky that would be) if only to break up the inevitable and breakneck locomotion towards surgery and a certain deadline. I love suspense. But I also hate it.

In some ways, I'm more excited about the birthing process this time around. With Nora, I was afraid. Of the c-section, of being a first time mother, of getting to the hospital itself, pretty much anything I had read on the interwebz...But at the same time, there was a kind of bliss in not knowing how hard the healing process would be or what to expect when.

But I had had no idea how euphoric that first moment holding her would be. Or how perfectly wonderful that first couch nap at home with Nora would be. So in that respect, I simply can't wait for this baby. AT ALL.

But then again, as someone who's had slightly more than the national average of surgeries (some minor and some not-so-much), I will never lose my apprehension at feeling like a human pincushion. Sure, I can deal with the post-op metal staples, but please don't make me watch while you put in an I.V. and draw blood. There are limits.

That said, after the last few nights of waking up with insane false contractions and an internal (child-sized? Debatable?) foot in my sternum, I would willingly jab the needle in my own arm. Especially if you include last night's sideshow of a full leg cramp that made me a) shriek in pain, b) wonder why someone was stabbing me into ribbons with scissors, and c) if contractions have ever been brought on by leg pain.

On a fun note, I had my first gender-related dream in recent memory. And it was a boy. Meaning...absolutely nothing. Because, if anyone remembers, I was certain that N.J. was a boy. Which I'm decently sure she is not.

In my dream, I was so thrilled to meet my kid and announce his birth that I promptly sent a mass text...to all of the past year's contractors. Like my mold guy and the plumbers, et. al. But it never sent. Leaving me to panic. (Great- one more thing to stress about.)

So, uh, this is the last day to lemme know your guesses for The Monkey's weight and gender! I've been receiving them via Facebook, text, and in person...overwhelmingly, people feel that the baby will be a girl and under 7lbs.

So I'm gonna go on record and say BOY, 7lbs, 13oz.

P.J. thinks it's a dude as well, but he's sticking with 7lbs, 10oz- which is very The Price Is Right of him.

My youngest sister is thinking Girl, 5lbs, 8oz. Because a) she was a preemie and a twin, and b) she has not, in recent memory, hefted a full term infant.

My Dad thinks it's a boy. My Mom, to counter that, is going with Girl. Even though she really thinks it's a boy. (Especially since she made gorgeous wooden letters for the baby's name- both gender options, in fact- but really likes how the boy name came out.)

So I'm curious what YOU think. Again, I can promise you nothing but my undying impressitude and bragging rights on a blog of medium publication. Oooh.

And I'll seeya Wednesday for a [blissfully] wordless post. And probably something exuberantly drugged on Thursday.

Plan accordingly.

Someone Bring Me A Dustmop. Or A Pillow.

Putting on brass knuckles.

I should not be left to my own devices.

This includes all of the times where Nora is napping, I am caught up on household dirtiness, writing deadlines are breezed through, and P.J. is off doing something P.J.-like (i.e., watching Mad Men, showering, or building a door frame).

What, you ask? There are times when all of these forces align and you find yourself with free pockets of the day, gaps of the afternoon and/or early evening where you should go rest/shower and instead you fill in the blanks with the busywork of the insane?

Yep.

For I am in that final stretch of pregnancy. Even though I'm crazily floppy-headed exhausted, I get these bizarre and fleeting bursts of energy...and they're devious. They whisper things to me like- Launder The Bassinet Bedding. Again.

Do The Laundry Even Though There Are Only Four Pairs Of Socks And Some Pajama Pants In The Hamper.

Stack The Tupperware- Even Though It'll Make No Difference By Tomorrow Evening, As You Are The Only One Who Even Realizes Tupperware Can (And Should) Be Stacked.

Revise Your Will And Leave Heartfelt Notes For Your Husband/Daughter/Unborn Child. (Oh, that's right. It just got real.)

Nowhere on these mental lists o' crazy is the ever-popular Go To Bed Early or Read A Chapter Of That Dashiell Hammett Collection You've Been Digging. Because those would be nice, relaxing things for me, the orca of a pregnant woman. No no, the tasks that will be completed are for the people who will have to show up when I go into labor at 3am. Or passersby peeking through the window and judging the state of affairs. Perhaps the panel of judges who will apparently be white-gloving my mantel. WHICH I DO NOT YET HAVE. (Peej- this weekend? Build us a mantel. Put it somewhere the judges will see it.)

And I do realize- in a very small part of my rational being- that alllll of this stuff is aversion to the mind-numbing fear I have that, even though I successfully did all this before and am well on my way to raising an actual member of society, I shall fail to do so this time around. Or fail to do it as well. I am not sure which would be worse.

There's also a good chance that I am feeling feelings about each and every twinge, pop, twist, kick, and parry currently going on from the region beginning mid-thigh and ending juuust below my clavicle. As I have never been in labor (true) and have no such plans to do so any time in the near future (double true), each instance that indicates any sort of progress towards any sort of active birth sends me running for the Swiffer.

And before anyone feels the need to triple reassure me that I am fine, the baby will be fine, and the house will be fine...I really do know this. I do. That's what makes my insanity all the more funny. Cognizance.

And on THAT note, anyone wanna place your bets on this kid? I'm going to start it off with 20lbs flat, with a length of at least 37 inches- per octopus leg. As we're fairly certain that this child will be delivered on the morning of October 4th, you really don't have to feel compelled to guess a date. And I can't promise anything to the winner except for perhaps AN AWESOME SHOUT-OUT and/or a pack of Mickey Mouse stickers.

If Nora's cool with sharing.

On second thought, she might suggest that the warm, contented glow of victory should be enough for you.

She really digs her stickers.

Well, THAT was crazy!

(And look- it's Thursday! Sure, Thursday night, but still the right blogging day!) Ain't nothin' gonna break-a my stride!)

So, um, I had a baby! And here's how it went down: After my morning last Thursday of cleaning everything- twice- and overpacking for a three night stay at the most luxurious of hospitals EVER (and P.J.'s "working from home," which, God bless him, he really did try to do), we headed downtown. On the way, we said things like, "wouldn't it be hilarious if we had a girl?" Which, admittedly, had an exceptionally equal chance of taking place. Whatever. We knew we were having A BOY.

Got to the hospital, where they put us in the waiting room with other patients' parents and grands- the type of people prone to exclaiming, "She's been in there forever, I hope everything's all right." This did not calm us. Turns out, there were two emergencies right around the time of my c-section, and there was, quite literally, no room at the inn. About an hour later we were whisked into a recovery room and triple-teamed by nurses, an intern and the best anesthesiologist in the history of modern medicine. I was poked, prodded, hooked up and injected while I dutifully filled out forms and answered questions about my mental health. (Was I contemplating suicide? No, but I sure as heck was thinking about playing possum.)As P.J. put on his scrubs and I placed my beanie duck Samuel by my pillow (he has yet to miss a major surgery), I told P.J. that I was reconsidering. Slightly. I mean, how well did we really even know each other? Too late. The team arrived to wheel me out and P.J. and I told each other to be brave, like a toaster. (You either understand that joke or you don't- I will not explain it to you.)

And of course, the moment where I may have needed P.J. most in my life...was the moment which he was unable to be present. Now, I've been stressing about the spinal or epidural for the entirety of the pregnancy. Seriously. More than actual labor, more than the first year of the child's life, I focused all my fears on this one fleeting moment for no discernible reason other than my dislike of needles. And/or pain. Whatever. And P.J. (and other husbands- I don't think they singled out my husband as a wussbag) was considered a liability in the operating room. Apparently the fathers can't handle the sight of the mammoth needle and do embarrassing things like faint or try to drag their wives from the room. Whereas the wives sit there, sigh, and allow a giant needle to be shoved into their spinal columns like good little soldiers.

And aside from the "bee sting" of the lidocaine, I FELT NOTHING! It was awesome. And then, moments later, I felt nothing. Everything from my ribs down went completely numb and heavy (they said some women panic because they can't feel themselves breathing- I haven't been able to feel myself breathe since August. Score!) and a gigantic surgical tent was placed between my head and the unmentionable action south of my non-breathing ribcage. By this point it had been about fifteen or twenty minutes and I'm pretty sure P.J. thought I had kicked it. But no! They brought him in to sit at the left side of my head and my strapped-down arms (we redefined "natural") and we waited for the fun to begin.

I actually made the entire surgical team laugh when I told them that I'd only agreed to go out for one drink with my husband...and I had no idea how the rest of this happened. Someone suggested it must've been a rather large drink to result in a baby five years later. Perhaps a mai tai in a fish bowl?

Less than TEN MINUTES LATER, they announced that they were close and I'd be feeling some "pressure" and a little "tugging." (I did, but remember- for nine months I'd been feeling a LOT more than a "some pressure.") With a faint 'pop,' I suddenly felt a ton more room in the vicinity of my lungs and heard "We've got some feet." That's right, they had to ease the baby out backwards, sloooooowly. P.J. almost leaned up over the curtain to see but was then told, "Wait until we take care of her vital organs." (Wait, what? Mine? This IS like the game 'Operation!' Do you see a charley horse?) Finally, FINALLY, they let P.J. look up over the curtain and tell me what we had.

Now remember, for months and months I'd been having dreams wherein a little boy featured prominently. People told me I was carrying a boy, based on old wives' tales. I felt like I was carrying a boy, whatever the heck that means. I would've gladly welcomed a girl, but it was a laughable thought- it just wasn't going to happen!

"It's...a GIRL!" P.J. looked down at me and exclaimed this with a laugh. I laughed too, not quite getting the joke. WHO was a girl? Then, suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. She was a girl. The baby. I had a baby! Who was a girl! P.J. welled up. I welled up. We laughed some more. We said the word "girl" a few more times. I saw a vague, pink figure getting wrapped up on the scale across the room.

And then...she was in P.J.'s arms. I looked at her, still not quite connecting the fact that THIS was The Bitsy, the one who really, really needed those pickles and onions, the one who'd been kicking and punching my ribs nonstop. I kissed her ridiculously soft cheeks and kissed her wide mouth that was an exact miniature replica of P.J.'s, and looked into her serious, terribly surprised blue eyes. Her hair, tucked under a pink Northwestern Memorial Hospital cap (for she was a GIRL), was brown with dark gold roots and as soft as duck down.

During this time, the surgical team (the doctor and anesthesiologist were both so amazing I almost named her after them, regardless of gender)sewed me up and had us out of there in an hour. Amazingly, the baby never had to leave our sides (like they could even pry her away) and I got to carry her out of there in my arms on our way back to the recovery room.

"Does she have a name?" The nurse asked us as she filled out the bassinet tag.

"Nora Jane."

And there you have it. An hour in recovery where people poked, prodded, injected and UNhooked me from machinery, did the same to Nora, asked us similar questions as before (I answered for Nora, being her mother and all) and began to share the good news on Facebook and via emails. (Unfortunately, the draft email we had saved with everyone's addresses and the heading "It's a..." sent without text in the body, thoroughly confusing and pissing off about fifty people. Thusly, P.J. had to quickly re-send, re-text and make some calls to head off the close friends and relatives at the pass.) P.J. got to put Nora in her first tee-shirt with mitten sleeves (it's a very "Dad" job, you see) and I took a break from staring into her face for about five minutes. Made some calls. Had some more things poked and prodded. Then I took her back and haven't looked away since.

That night, in our super plush room at Prentice (a corner room with floor to ceiling windows and an incredible skyline view- as the doctors who checked on us said, "How'd you get THIS room?") we played the Beatles lullabye album...and stared at her some more. Total and utter bliss. Sure, the DuraMorph was incredible (and sadly short-lived) but the euphoric high from having her was even cooler. (The next night P.J. informed me that I'd had four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. I DID NOT CARE.) Nor did I want anyone to take her to the nursery. Solid sleep is for the weak! I want my kid! Who is a GIRL!)

We left three days later (and with only one really rough night where the pain meds were but a sad, sad joke) feeling like the entire delivery was waaaay too easy. I could do this again! P.J. points at me every time I say this, but seriously. I had no idea SHE'D be the end result of nine months of utter discomfort, sickness and more than a little pain. (I mean, I had an idea, but I didn't even know her! Not the way I do now. Being her mother and all.)

My mother and father came first to royally spoil us (my Dad kinda finished the rest of the house projects and my Mom has yet to slow down her catering and cleaning) and our pals have been a nonstop source of awesome. P.J., sadly, had to go back to work, but we inundate him with pictures specifically designed to tug at his heartstrings and send emails about Nora's progress with training wheels and college applications.

And today's her one week birthday! It blows my mind. Sure, the drugs are pretty decent, but the passage of time has ZOOMED! (By the by, happy 31st birthday to my big sister and Nora's rad Auntie Kate! She gave me a birthday buddy with her first son and my first nephew- I gave her a birthday-week buddy with my first daughter and her first niece!)

Things are skipping along nicely here at home.

Nora and I sleep. A lot.

And we both eat. A LOT lot.

It is, quite simply, the sweetest gig I've ever scored.

Hey there, Scorpio baby!

Well, this is it.

The end of Date Night Month.

(And, uh, the BEGINNING OF THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A PARENT AND NON-SLEEPER.)

October has treated me pretty well. This week alone we rounded out the dates with a viewing of "Where the Wild Things Are" (I cried, surprise, surprise), a yum dinner at Kiki's Bistro (no relation) for Peej's birthday (we had steak pomme frites- bringing us up to...four steaks this week. Nice life) a walk in the forest preserve (where a buck crossed our paths, momentously non-concerned- later, we saw his wife and baby resting by a tree- he's a family man, too!) and discovered Susie's Diner (24/7 greasy fabulousness and fifty-plus milkshakes on the menu! Date SUMMER, coming right up!)

I love P.J.'s birthday- I love most birthdays, really- because the idea of celebrating for an entire day is so, so appealing. I made him breakfast kinda early (he's a bit of a "rusher" in the mornings...) and watched him open his prezzies. We had opened a few the night before (spoiledrottenbaby) because the stack of presents was mammoth and he was "only thinking of me" getting to see him open all of them. That. Is. Love. And nothing says "love" like an 18 volt Black & Decker drill. (The cats got him socks and boxers- unoriginal, but hey- they have no thumbkins.) Spent the rest of the day emailing him 28 reasons why he's so great (Peej started that tradition on my 25th...my youngest sis said that it would be pretty difficult by middle age. My thought: if I can't think of ONE new thing I like about my husband each year, it's gonna be a loooong marriage) and then we had a little French bistro action. This was followed, of course, by a chocolate Sweet Mandy B's cake.

For P.J., of course.

This week was also spent running errands on a gigantic to-do list, checking things off like God Himself was going to point down at an item and proclaim: You didn't pay your library fines? No more books for you. EVER.

Finally was able to use a gift card to a swank maternity store- ended up buying a sweatshirt. Whatever. I love it. I did, however, have a moment of delirious laughter when I saw the "Nine months" option hanging in the dressing room. Ever seen one of these? It's like a toddler's water bubble for the pool, 'cept it goes in front- you know, to guesstimate how big a size you'll need at "nine months."

Except.

It was the size of a volleyball, cut in half. Now, a volleyball isn't exactly tiny...but it's certainly not even coming close to the span of my midsection. I'm pretty sure it's even smaller than the circumference of my kid's head. It may actually be boob-sized. Regardless. This is not helpful and it a) will only perpetuate this idea that WOMEN GAIN SEVEN POUNDS IN PREGNANCY and b) make you come back for a new hoodie. Except you'll be crying. For you'll feel obese.

Thanks, "Nine months" option!

Also did that all-too-critical eyebrows step prior to one's delivery. (Now, I don't necessarily have any illusions that I'll look like Heidi Klum in the hospital, but I'd rather not look like Gary Busey, either.) There's this place down the street that looked shady and cheap- but it had been recommended- so I gave it a try. You would have thought a military operation was going down. Turns out, they didn't "wax" so much as "thread" the living daylights out of any hair within the vicinity of my eyeballs. This was a two woman job. And I was clearly in the way as the third. Like a really uncomfortable game of Cats Cradle, they pulled, twanged and sawed at my eyebrows until I was pretty sure raw nerves were exposed. At one point I began to giggle (even though, truly, nothing was funny AT ALL) and also tried to wipe away an errant tear.

"You no help." (Story of my life, sister.)

And just when I thought my head would explode from a sensation akin to holding in a sneeze for an hour, underwater, while being stabbed...there was a big ol' mirror in front of my face.

"You like?"

DID I LIKE?! My head was now glorious! My brows conveyed a look of stylish, confident wit. And the price? FIVE DOLLARS. (I'm going back next month.)

And now, with no further ado...I'm off to the hospital to meet my kiddo! I am unbelievably excited to see the baby who has kept me on a strict diet of pickles, onions, tacos, Italian ice and lemonade for the past nine months, as well as see JUST HOW BIG the feet are that have dragging across my ribcage for the past two. Hopefully we'll be able to loosen the ball that is my child's body within the next month- after all, any kid that chooses to spend a trimester with his face against a lung and ankles over the forehead (with hands making "fish face" gills) is destined to be slightly cylindrical in shape. I'm already in love.

So today, October 29th, 2009, the day that the Billboard Pop Charts insist that Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is the best song EVER and "Paranormal Activity" is the biggest box office smash ("Where the Wild Things Are" is third!), I get to officially...

...wonder if the term "lollygag" is already a sweet, laughable, never-again-kinda phrase.

(Happy birthday, Bitsy!)

Two weeks. Gosh, that sounds definite.

I've been watching a lot of television lately. I have little to no energy left to renovate or get the house baby-ready at the end of a workday (my new mindset: the baby can sleep on me. Here, throw me that towel.) Between episodes of Ghost Whisperer wherein I cry like my arm is being broken off at the shoulder (I don't know where this new obsession is coming from- I never used to watch 'ion: positively entertaining' tv) and various Laws & various Orders, I've been enjoying the heck out of batty commercials for folks who have been "trapped" into debt. Sure, debt is superbly easy to accrue (I've, ah, heard) but the best part is the statement in bold across the screen that reiterates what the "paid spokesperson, not an actual lawyer" proclaims: "Over 2k in debt? IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT." Really? Not even the InStyler hair straightener or the Slanket? (I can't resist the new skull n' bones pattern.) I mean, I definitely believe that infomercials hold a certain sway over all of us, but no one's holding an UltraSmooth to your head to fork over your AmEx. I feel better, however, knowing that I am not to blame. If there's anything I hate more than debt, it's personal responsibility. (And frizzy hair, cold appendages and stubble.)

On a similar note, what would really happen if I followed the advice of some of those ads that implore you to "Tell 'em ___ sent ya!" If I walked into a pharmacy and proclaimed that Wilford Brimley should've called ahead for me, do you think that would fly?

"Oh, how is he?"

"...Fine."

And while we're on the topic of blatant consumerism, what the heck is Target's problem? I went in seeking nursing bras (sorry) and asked a lady in the section clearly labeled 'Maternity." You would have thought I asked her to jump my car with the look she gave me.

"Uh, that's not my department. Maybe try LINGERIE?"

(My bad. Many things come to mind with the word 'lingerie.' Snap-top bras and supportive elastic bands are not two of them. Those definitely seem "maternal" to me.") Searched for about ten minutes in the lingerie section and almost ventured over to Patio Furniture to ask for help when I finally found them. They were clearly marked and displayed in the three inch by seven inch gap BEHIND a support beam and hidden by two perpendicular racks of knee socks. OF COURSE. I actually did have to ask for help in getting them out (I no longer span 3x7 inches in any part of my upper torso. Sorry.)

And why oh WHY do maternity pants have sewn-up pockets? The inside fabric is still there, why all the secrecy? I really don't think anything with the word "maternity" in it should be just for show. For I have nothing I wish to show any longer.

One last gripe. For today. I think. If one more person tells me how 'lucky' I am that I don't have to 'go through actual labor,' in terms of my impending c-section, I may rip out their tongue and shove it down their throat, gushing about their luck in not having to actually swallow any longer. That's me, Lucky Charms Flynn. When's the last time major abdominal surgery was considered a prize? There will be a person there whose sole job it will be to hold my major internal organs outside of my abdominal cavity for about an hour. I mean, I would never say the same to a gal who was about to undergo a natural childbirth, proclaiming her luck in avoiding needles and all forms of nasty painkillers! LUCK would be used to describe someone who was tapped gently on the shoulder and woken from a lovely sleep only to be cheerfully told that she seemed to have had a baby in her sleep. Would you like an ice cream sandwich?

I DO, however, feel lucky that I live in a time where the term DuraMorph is a real one. Think about how lovely those words are and how sweet they sound all mashed together like that. Morphine for the Duration. My new Emo band.

And finally, this last little bit of awesome was sent to me by my sister, who had had it forwarded to her from a pal. But it is I who will put it out there for public consumption and discussion: click here, please.

Check out the 'About Us' section. Go down to bio of ol' 'Chuck.' I'll wait.

Okay. There are three phrases that stand out to me. "All inclusive neutering" is one. "Special gift" is another. Also, that (unnecessary) bit about the more exciting relationship with Barbara.

Your assignment? Tell me what's going on in that scenario. Also, what to do about my now-bleeding ocular cavities.

Seriously. I will wait here until you do. And wish that Slankets came in psyche-size.