There is no way that at a mere 7 weeks I can already be so poofy! Sure, my body is now circulating 10% more blood, and my uterus has already doubled in size. But for both of my previous pregnancies, I didn’t need to level up to maternity clothes until after the first trimester!

Of course, it’s not like I have those crazy things called “abdominal muscles” to help keep it held in. After 2 children and staring 40 in the face, those muscles are in South Florida sipping margaritas.

I may have to broadcast my news sooner than I had wanted anyway. Perceptive children are perceiving that their mom has been replaced with an alien life form who sprints from the room holding her nose when sausage is being cooked. And once they know, no force other than duct tape can keep the news from spreading. And there’s only so long one can legally duct tape one’s child’s mouth closed while sending her to public school. After a day or two, the teachers begin to notice.

In other news, my midwife saw me today and declared that my uterus is large for gestation. You can basically read this as I’m either carrying a litter or, as my best friend helpfully informed me earlier using top-notch Internet research, my uterus is probably filled with fibroids.

I go for an ultrasound next week to see if it’s twins, fibroids, humanoids, or ping pong balls.

I’m knocked up. Again. For the last time. For fuck’s sake.
And all this can be blamed on Kansas City Chiefs’ safety Bernard Pollard, whose shoulder connected with the left knee of New England Patriots’ QB Tom Brady in game one of the 2008 football season, taking out Brady and dashing SuperBowl hopes for the team and fans.

As it was, not giving a damn about either the Steelers or the Cardinals, I did NOT don my Patriots jersey with pride first thing in the morning on SuperBowl Sunday. I, instead, decided to sneak into the shower with my husband.

There I was, innocently washing myself, when we decided to engage in a little pre-game warm-up while the kids were happily playing Littlest Pet Shop in their room. If it were the Patriots, we would be WATCHING the pre-game on the TV. But it was Cardinals v Steelers *yawn*.

Thus it is that through the miracles of mysterious hormonal normalization in women nearing 40, spontaneous ovulation, and bending over to get the soap, we now have a little blastula that I shall name “Oops.”

Stay tuned for more juicy gossip. I’ll be in my bunk, trying not to throw up on “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and sending bad thoughts to a certain KC Chiefs safety.

I can’t believe I just said those words.

And to all the moms and dads out there who do (or did) this single parenting thing full-time, all the time: you are amazing. *salutes you* (Yes, Mom, I include you in this, so you can lay off the guilt trip in the comments section)

I am an extrovert. It’s who I am. I can do the taking care of my children, the long hours of keeping myself occupied by housecleaning, packing, reading a book, doing laundry. I am extremely competent, reliable, responsible, and independent. But my brain needs feeding. I haven’t had a conversation that didn’t involve either poop or washable crayons for DAYS. I am almost to the point of stopping strangers on the side of the road to strike up a conversation. Pretty much anyone over 46 pounds will do.

My neighbor just ran from me in the midst of a somewhat inane conversation I was struggling to prolong, saying over her shoulder that she was letting me go so I could make dinner for my kids.

“Kids?” I say, the note of desperation bordering on creepy. “They don’t need dinner. I have granola bars. Would you like some Cabernet? I have …cake???”

We’re not exactly offering cash incentives. Yet. And, why do I get this feeling I should hire a lawyer to help me negotiate a fair deal with her?

The current bribe is trying to buy 7 days of no accidents, with a new Groovy Girl doll as the encouragement. If she closes this deal, she is hoping to escalate her winnings and negotiate a deal to win a Belle Princess Dress ($38 at the toy store) for 3 days of no accidents. I already came back at her with a refusal and a push for 30 days.

I’m waiting for her people to get back to my people.

I pee on your expectations. And on your bed, too.

She finally passed out, exhausted with the effort. So sad. The husband and I are both a mess. I can’t even write about this in a way that captures our feelings tonight. With the week+ of no feces, the rash, the fear of pain, the fear of our causing pain by wiping, the fear of medicine….

Tomorrow WILL BE a better day.

I apologize profusely for being late for work this morning. It’s the 3-year-old’s lion’s special book’s fault.

*blink*

OK, here’s the long story: I frantically jetted out the door at 8:30 this morning to go to the post office to send a package to my mother for her birthday, PLANNING to be home in time for work at 9. I won’t even go into detail about how I bent the laws of physics and a few speeding limits to get TO the post office in the first place.

The reason I’m late is that Alex the Lion lost his very special book.

It seems that his owner stuffed a very small Hello Kitty notepad (from a Happy Meal) that had all kinds of important markings in it between the cracks in the glass display case at the post office.

It was a true crisis. With tears. Alex the Lion’s owner was crying, so I felt it prudent to at least attempt to recover the lost very special book. Postal workers were informed of the situation, and various keys were procured. I’m not sure when the last time the display case was opened, as there were products on display with the 32-cent stamps advertised therein.

It took 3 postal workers, a handful of keys, and about 30 minutes to finally open the display case and recover Alex’s book.

Perhaps I should just tell my boss that I overslept?

She’s pulling it out, a comfort/coping mechanism she has developed that grew out of, I’m sure, a lifelong habit of playing with my hair and her own, especially when tired or facing some emotional/developmental challenge or period of stress. I’ve researched this, and although I’m going to keep a close eye on her for future obsessive/compulsive type behaviors, what I’ve read so far is that it’s not unnatural. And it’s not, at this age, trichotillomania

She’ll pull out a handful of hair with barely a grimace of pain, wrap the hair around her fingers, then suck on her fingers with the hair. She’s been a finger sucker since birth, so this hair pulling is in addition to the existing comfort measure.

I’ve tried putting a glove on the offending hand when she is tired, at the advice of a friend. She likes the feel of the material between her fingers, and she rubs the gloves the same way she rubs the pulled hair. But she takes off the glove, and although I’m feeling desperate, I’m not quite desperate enough to break out the duct tape *smirk*

I’ve talked to her about it. She’s very bright and has an uncanny vocabulary and understanding at her age, but trying to get her to stop the behavior doesn’t seem to be working, as it’s more an unconscious, habitual thing. We’ve bought her dolls that have hair, so that she can find a more constructive outlet. But she still prefers to pull her own hair.

So far, our efforts have not been working.

She’s dealt with a lot of stress recently. Change is not something she deals with well, and CHANGE has been the number one component of her life in the last 6 weeks.

Suggestions? Ideas? I’m open to trying just about anything.

Again.

The attack of the Cremora Kid, Part II, occurred this morning.

My kids play every morning for HOURS, only taking breaks to eat a quick breakfast. This morning, I needed a few minutes to do some work.

I get on the computer after sending the kids to go play downstairs. I’m catching up online with my boss to make sure the day’s work is covered and to hear about the birth of my other boss’s first child (Yay! Baby!)

10 minutes pass, and I hear the kids happily playing downstairs.

Then, I hear these fateful words, from Kelsey (the four year old): “You’re makin’ a mess!”

I run. Seriously. I can cover some ground pretty quickly.

At the bottom of the stairs, there’s…well… the bottom three stairs used to be covered in light brown carpet. But it’s just this off-white color now?

And there’s the older kid, and the toddler, and the huge bottle of Cremora. And there’s Alex the lion, soft-puppy the puppy, and squiggly puppy the puppy, transformed into off-white soggy creatures with puffs of Cremora clouds wafting over their heads.

I am Terry’s exploding brain.

After I put my brain back into my head, holding it in as I jog down the stairs, hoping it won’t all leak out my ears in fury, I slow my pace as I make it down to the children. I see that the older child is mostly just collateral damage. I know who the villain is. She is at the epicenter of the Cremora explosion.

Mere seconds have gone by since I heard those words of warning from Kelsey. And it’s rather amazing the range of emotions I can go through in so few seconds. Trepidation, fear, amazement, anger, fury, calm, humor, within milliseconds of one another.

So by the time I got to Laurel, I had only to raise my voice to her, showing I was angry, to let her know that such behavior is NOT acceptable. She immediately burst out crying. I carried her to her room and placed her in her crib so I could clean up the mess. I sent the four-year-old to wash her hands upstairs.

After the cleanup, I discuss the incident with Kelsey, letting her know that such behavior isn’t OK. I try to impress on her how important it is that she come get me when she thinks her sister is doing something she shouldn’t. I need to get this one on my side early, the informant. She’ll be useful in the coming years.

I then gently bathe the Cremora-covered toddler, her little leftover sobs and teary eyes breaking my heart. I find the pink of her skin. I clean all her crusty crevices. I wash the off-white from her auburn tendrils, dry her eyes.

I towel her off, dress her in her favorite pink dress, smooth her hair. “I love you, Laurel.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

ALL I TALK ABOUT IS SHIT!

Either I am eternally 12 years old, or my life stinks, literally.

Gone are the days when I’d write incredibly erudite papers on literary criticism, or when I’d write articles to be published in high-circ travel/tourism magazines and newspaper inserts.

Now, my writing is full of shit. Well, maybe it was ALWAYS full of shit, but not the literal type of shit. The brown, stinky, type. The type that I seem to be specializing in these days.

My husband and I often discuss the color and consistencies of the shit in the training potty or in the diapers of our children. It’s an actual topic of discussion. We converse about shit more often than we discuss literature, tourism, publishing, politics, art…pretty much anything.

Hee hee! I said SHIT six times while writing this. No, make that seven. SHIT SHIT SHIT. There. Done. For now.

Yep. I’m 12.

I put a big thirsty towel over the pee (BIG dog. BIG bladder *sigh*) and danced on it for a minute. Then, I filled the bathtub and threw the kids in, both insisting on wearing their swimsuits. I figure, sure. That’ll save me from having to rinse them anyway, right? Being the queen of multitasking, I’m all about such time-saving steps.

I took Kelsey out of the bathtub first. As I’m taking off her swimsuit, Kelsey looks into the crotch area: “There’s no more poo poo in my swimsuit!” she says, happily.

I look over, and there’s Laurel, sucking on a wet facecloth.

I FREAK out, take her out of the bathtub, contemplate washing her mouth out with bleach and then decide that’s probably not a good idea, send both drippy kids to their room. Bleach out the tub, the toys.

Ten minutes later, Laurel walks up to me, a charming smile on her face:

“Mommy, are you happy?”
“No, right now I’m not feeling very happy. I’m feeling angry at Kelsey and Tommy (the dog).”
“Mommy? Are you happy with ME?”
“Yes, Laurel, I’m happy with you.”
*grins, twirls around the bathroom*