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Happy Labor Day peeps! In honor of the holiday I thought it a grand idea to watch the video of my labor with Mighty for the first time. I’m pretty much all healed up at this point so I’m feeling good about finally viewing that crazy thirty minutes from another, less painful, lens… Um, now that I have… I’m not sure how my vagina and my bumhole are two separate entities anymore after that nine and a half pound gigantor walked out of me on July twentieth. Holy. Horror film. Seriously, God hates me because if he loved me he would have blessed me with small babies and uneventful deliveries. I was present for two of my sister’s deliveries (I missed one because my thunder-stealing sister thought it a good idea to go into labor the day I got hitched. The nerve…) and her’s were all natural and totally NOT the horror show that mine were, so I definitely have a basis for comparison. When I asked Hubby if he wanted to watch the video of Mighty’s birth with me he responded, “No, thank you. I lived it.” That should’ve been a clear indicator of what’s to come. Now, I do not have any recorded evidence of my first two child births because with Famous I was shy and embarrassed about what it all might look like in my nether regions and therefore had zero interest in recording it, but with Slim I really wanted to see it for myself. I made the mistake of asking the Hubby to record the birth so I alone could watch it after. You know what he recorded? He recorded my face. The whole time. Perfect. Because that’s what I wanted to relive… my awesomely crinkled, push-face. Not the action of a nine pound twelve ounce baby boy coming out of my hoo-ha. Thank you, Hubby. You follow directions splendidly. Luckily, this time around my great, childless friend wanted to be in the delivery room and is fully capable of following directions and was totally down for watching the madness from behind the video camera. And she did just that. She was focused, quiet, and steady. So many details connected in my brain once I watched the video because at the time I was in so much pain I could only hear and see small patches of what was happening around me. Just to give you a bit of perspective… I wasn’t admitted into the hospital until AFTER I gave birth. I walked into labor and delivery nine and a half centimeters dilated. There was no time for an epidural. I gave birth thirty minutes after I received a room. My doctor? Who I love for keeping my vagina from ripping in half when I had Slim? Didn’t make it in time to deliver Mighty. All was NOT what it was supposed to be.

As soon as the nurse checked me and gave me the unfortunate news that there was no time to receive an epidural I immediately put a blockade up in my brain to keep all the panic, fearful, and anxious thoughts at bay because the last thing I needed is to completely lose my mind when I’m about to push this baby out completely aware and feeling everything. All I remember thinking is let’s get this show on the road. The sooner this happens the faster it’s over! So, I start the first set of pushes and I completely feel as though my efforts are making ZERO progress. That whole chin to chest crap is worthless. As I’m resting between my first set and second set of pushes I hear the on-call doctor ask my friend if she’s recording and if so she should step back a few feet to prevent the camera from getting wet. Whaaaaat?! I look over my big belly to see the doctor holding up a sheet, covering his clothes. I see my friend already standing at least three feet away from me and he’s suggesting she stands back farther? So, I start the second set of pushes, completely ignoring the chin to chest directions and I just sit back, bare down, push with all my might and SPLASH! I opened my eyes just in time to see fluid spewing across the room. Oh. My. Sweet Exorcism. What the shit was that? I look at Hubby and his eyes are wide, mouth open and completely giddy about the awesomeness he just witnessed. That, my friends, was my water breaking. The Hubby was super excited for me to see that part of the video, but it wasn’t as horror movie as it felt when it was happening. I was kinda bummed. With the third set of pushes came a whole new level of pain and for the first time in the video I’m vocal… and loud. But, I’m saying things like, “Oh, that hurts!” and “I can’t stop pushing!” and of course “Oh my GOD!” Pretty generic pain rants, but what I’m feeling is like I may die. My words give the pain that I was feeling no justice. Now this is where, in my opinion, the labor switches paths from a normal delivery, like my sister’s, to a number one seller, pro-abstinence, scare tactic, health class video because the following events are scary enough to make horny teenagers NEVER want to have sex for fear they may become pregnant and this WILL happen to them. No exaggeration necessary. It took the doctor twice as long to sew me up as it did for me to deliver the baby. But to actually see the damage as it’s happening was CRAZY. Thank baby Jesus I didn’t record Famous’ birth (it was just as horrific) or he would’ve been an only child. Why the eff did I want to record this shit show? Apparently feeling it wasn’t enough torture. So, I’m screaming and grunting… all that good stuff when her head is finally out and mister on-call doctor doesn’t do much to save me from stretching and tearing beyond recognition, but rather pulls her shoulders out and blood splatters all over himself, the nurse and the freakin’ floor and then baby girl cries and all focus turns to our nameless beauty while I bleed some more.

Even watching the video I couldn’t help but smile and tear up at the sight of such a beautiful miracle, but suddenly, and I’m assuming accidentally, my friend adjusts the camera from its focus on the beautiful babe resting peacefully on my chest to a very clear shot of what remains of my fine china. My teary eyes of joy immediately turn to shock. No wonder why my doctor (she got there in time to sew me up) was so pissed at what she had to fix. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that the worst part of the entire experience was hearing my doctor say the words, “Well, at least her sphincter’s still intact.” Did you gasp? I gasped. Sphincter? No wonder I still take Dulcolax! Giving birth (my versions of giving birth) is GNARLY. You know what else is gnarly? How painful the afterbirth is. Delivering the placenta, getting sewn up, having a nurse bounce up and down on your uterus to get all the blood out and it not work. Having that same nurse stick four pills up your ass in a continued effort to get the blood clots or whatever to disperse then bring mister on-call doctor BACK after the suppositories to stick his hand in my sore and stitched hoo-ha to scrape my uterus manually. All that… was gnarly.

I’m pretty proud of how I handled myself that day and I’m pretty certain I deserve a medal. Yup. Since I’ve had three children all over nine pounds at birth and all births extremely noteworthy in the damage department, why not? It’s totally deserved. I guess I’ll settle for the satisfaction of torturing my children when they’re grown with guilt trips of how they MUST do what I’m asking because they are solely responsible for my back issues, abdominal separation, and incontinence.

Mighty

Slim

Famous

You know how people always say things like… “Oh my gosh, my second child is NOTHING like my first child.”  “I can’t believe how DIFFERENT my babies are.”  “No two babies are the same…”  Well, I can say with confidence that my THREE babies ALL share the same DIVA-esque temperament.  All uniformly needy.  What are the odds that three consecutive children bare the stamina to wail as long as it takes to get Mama to pick them up?  I truly thought that I would have just one baby that’s easygoing or calm, NOPE.  Not a chance.  What the hell was I thinking?  And poor hubby has to deal with constant screaming 98% of the time he holds his child because our babies know that he is not the Mama.  He has no milk therefore he is useless.  Poor guy.  Now I know what you’re thinking… it sounds like I have colicky babies, but that’s not the case.  They usually stop the wailing as soon as they hit Mama’s arms.  I say “usually” because two of my three children have had digestion issues so sometimes the screaming is warranted and not easily remedied and actually had a cause.  

What is it like to have someone excitedly ask to hold your adorable baby and not have to explain that the inevitable screaming that will ensue has nothing to do with that person?  The baby is just extremely attached to Mama.  I guess there could be worse things to complain about but after having a baby in the belly for ten months I kinda would like a break every once in awhile, you know?  Some alone time.  Maybe go pee without listening to blood-curdling screams coming from the other room?  Or exiting the shower (if one constitutes rinsing off in under three minutes a shower) and not springing a leak; dripping Mama milk uncontrollably (wasting precious gold) because a baby is howling for Mama’s attention. Just a little peace and quiet while completing the simplest of daily tasks?  Not.  One.  Child.  Aren’t I lucky?  I see friends with babies that are totally cool just chillin’ in a bouncy seat, on an activity mat, or hell even the car seat… not my precious bundles.  Just a couple weeks ago Mighty successfully bawled from Auntie’s house all the way home!  THAT’S OVER EIGHTY MILES PEOPLE!  She was only three weeks old!  And it was 10 O’Clock at night!  (Insert big eyeballs emoji here)  Is anyone else as impressed as I am?  My kid’s got stamina.  My kids (plural.  As in ALL OF THEM) hate the car!! I remember when Famous accomplished that same feat, but it was my first rodeo and incessant crying made my anxiety level skyrocket so I constantly tried to make him “happy” so he would stop crying… which never worked.  I would have rather drove my car into a brick wall than listen to his crying any longer.  Thank God I’ve gotten passed that.  I know they are not in pain so I’ve learned to block out the crying.  The hubby is a PRO at it.  Blocking out the crying that is.  And that guy can sleep through ANYTHING which irritates me, yet I find myself envious of his ability.  One night, Famous was up in the middle of the night crying for absolutely no reason and I was rocking him and patting his back as if that would pacify him, when I happened to look over at my bed where Hubby was sleeping soundly.  It pissed me off to know that he was snoring away, not at all bothered by the egregious ear full I am dealing with.  I wanted to punch him square in the throat, but since that would be irrational I decided to bring our screaming child to HIS ear.  I held Famous within an inch of Hubby’s face for a solid minute.  Do you think Hubby moved?  Flinched?  Effing rolled over?  No!!!!  He didn’t move a muscle nor did he break his snoring stride!  It must be nice to be Daddy. I told him this awesome story the following morning and he laughed.  Why?  Because he truly heard nothing.  

Sometimes my babies are picky about HOW they are held too.  They must be held facing out.  Or sometimes on the hip, facing out.  They all have preferred to be held on the left hip or the left arm.  Don’t dare switch sides… they will cry.  On a positive note, I will say that my babies have all been pretty great sleepers.  At night.  As long as they’re in bed with me.  Thank goodness I’m a crazy, irrational person that thinks my baby’s gonna stop breathing if he/she is away from me while I sleep or else our nighttime arrangement would be difficult.  But I am, so it’s not.  I realize this entry is of no real significance, merely a bit of a “woe is me” bitch fest.  But I really thought my third child would break the high-maintenance chain.  I think she might be the most spirited of the three.  I guess that’s a good thing for a little lady to be…  Spirited.

To continue down the path of the hubby and my’s hilarious history and how we got to the crazy, chaos that is our life together now is to let you in on a small secret.  Are you ready?  I… got knocked up… before he put a ring on it (GASP!).  Yes, friends.  Premarital sex is what we had in our sinful apartment that we shared (GASP!).  But, remember, it was love at first sight and we both just KNEW we were going to grow old together so co-habitating after only five months of dating (yet another GASP!) didn’t seem crazy to either of us… at the time.  Now, fast forward about fifteen months and I was long-term, substitute teaching at a high school in Huntington Beach and future hubby was just making the switch from Bartender Trainer to corporate manager at his job.  We were both really, really busy and broke as a joke.  We were both in the midst of transitioning in our career paths and for us that meant low men on the totem poles.  Believe it or not, I made killer money slinging booze.  Apparently educating the future of our great country has less monetary value than keeping the masses tipsy, but I digress.  So, we were busy and poor.  I was so busy, in fact, I forgot to menstruate.  I was a week or so late, but I was also very stressed out so I knew stress could be the culprit and it would happen soon, but just to be sure, I utilized the EPT that I remembered I had in the bathroom.  I peed on it, I showered, I forgot about the test, I dressed, and left the apartment for work.  As I pulled my car out of the garage it dawned on me that I left the pee stick in the bathroom.  I didn’t want Future Hubby to see it and have a heart-attack so I ran back in to trash the evidence.  When I quickly grabbed the pee stick and chucked it into the garbage I remember seeing a positive sign, but it didn’t really register in my brain for another five seconds or so, but when it did I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing.  I stood in the hallway of our apartment frozen in disbelief.  I grabbed the pee stick out of the trash and quickly ran out the front door.  I threw it in the outside dumpster and immediately headed to buy a billion more test because I was certain that one was old and definitely defective.  Because pregnancy tests expire, for sure, and that is what’s going on here, right?  

My usual pit stop would be for coffee, but at this point I am wide-ass awake.  No caffeine necessary here.  My mind is on fire.  I am mentally imploding,  I would have bet my sister’s first born child that the pregnancy test would have been negative and I would go about my day. But nooooooooo, now I’m walking into a grocery store at 6:30 in the morning, buying pee sticks, wondering if I could successfully steal them just to avoid dealing with a cashier’s judginess.  Three boxes should be enough; that’s six tests.  Six seems like a number I can be certain about, right?  So, I head to the check stand and see a line.  A line!  At 6:30 in the morning?  Eff me.  Now I’m standing in line, with three people in front of me, holding only pee sticks for purchase, wondering if I’m going to be someone’s mother. I put my stack of pee sticks on the conveyer belt and watch them inch towards the cashier who looks especially chipper this morning.  The butterflies in my stomach are mostly for the results of my half dozen tests, but some of them are due to the interaction I’m most certainly going to have right now with Suzie Sunshine.  As she scans the three boxes she looks at me with a huge smile and loudly says, “Oooooooh, are we hoping?!?!?!?”  Me being me (if you know me) immediately wanted to rip her face off because there are other people listening, staring, judging and waiting to see what I will say…  But all I could muster was “Shut up!?”  Which came out more like an annoyed imperative than an exclamatory statement.  What a dick, I thought.  It’s none of her business and she needs to mind hers.  I’m pretty sure she didn’t expect my response to be so annoyed, but seriously?  Pregnancy is such a touchy subject to broach with complete strangers.  I mean… I would NEVER ask a woman when she’s due or what she’s having unless she’s nine months pregnant and crowning!  I’ve seen how that scenario pans out for people when the woman is NOT in fact pregnant and it’s catastrophic.  So, hopefully she learned her lesson.  Or I’m just an overly sensitive dramatic dick and she’s now more careful about who she decides to ask personal questions to… So I jump in my car and race to work, but on my way I call my sister.  My sister is my sounding board and voice of reason and I need to tell someone that I’ve taken a positive pregnancy test and I’m about to take six more.  And I know she’s awake because she also teaches.  Did I mention she’s six months pregnant with her second child?  Yeah… that too.  When she picks up the phone it only took about three seconds for me to blurt out, “I think I’m pregnant!”  Her response was pretty immediate and basically calm and happy.  “What?  Really?!  Have you taken a test?  Does Future Hubby know?”  Her response calmed me.  I don’t know why, but the fact that she wasn’t freaked out made me less freaked out.  Then I realized how much I love Future Hubby and that I’m twenty six years old not eighteen and although this is a bit out of order as far as life events are concerned it’s still exciting, not catastrophic.  It’s amazing how much my sister’s opinion and advice matters to me because that’s a rare reality in my life.  I’ve never much cared what people thought or if they agreed with me and my choices.  But thank God I called her because I’m going into this much calmer than I would have had she not answered the phone.  I remember her mentioning that our children would be so close in age and how excited she was to be an auntie before we hung up the phone.  It made me smile.

I drank a lot of water that day.  I went to the bathroom between each class period and peed on a stick every trip and each time the results were the same.  Positive.  I am officially convinced I am a lady with a baby.  Holy shit.  Even though I’m currently long-term subbing at this school I had just (I mean like three days prior) signed my first teaching contract at another school.  How about that.  As if the first year of teaching isn’t difficult enough I’m going to be expecting my first child too.  I’ll have to take maternity leave.  I’ll have to be up in the middle of the night with an infant.  I’ll have to grade ninety, five-page essays about the Puritan era while nursing a newborn babe.  To say I was a bit overwhelmed just thinking about what’s to come is an understatement.  Beyond all those distant worries… I have to tell Future Hubby.  What’s he going to say?  He’s just starting a new job that pays way less, but will serve as the launching pad for his career in the beverage industry.  He’s going to be preoccupied with that.  Is he going to be happy?  Remember he’s the laid back one and I the uptight one so hopefully he stays true to form.  

Future Hubby walks through the door around eight at night and I’m sitting on the couch watching the news.  He tells me about his day and I listen or I at least appear to be listening as I’m really going over how I’m going to tell him he’s going to be someone’s daddy probably sooner than he wanted.  When he finishes his daily happenings he asks how my day was…  I tell him it was just another day of crazy sophomores.  And then I say, “Hey babe… I think I’m going to stop drinking caffeine.  If I stop drinking caffeine, would you stop with me?”  He looks at me sideways knowing that I live on caffeine.  If I could hook up an I.V. and main vein the coffee I totally would.  Knowing that he’s only saying this to avoid any further explanation as to why I think he should do what I’m telling him to do he says, “Sure, babe.”  Next I throw in, “…and alcohol.  I’m going to abstain from alcohol too.  You with me?”  Now he’s listening because Future Hubby loves his beer and there’s no way I’m talking him into giving that up.  “For how long?” he asks.  “Well I was thinking for about ten months.”  I said with wide eyes staring at him, hoping he made the connection between the time period I’m choosing to abstain from selected beverages and the gestational period for a baby.  “Why?” he says.  “Because I’m pregnant and I hear it’s bad for the baby to drink caffeine and alcohol while pregnant…”  Silence abounds.  He looks at me for an extended period of time without saying a word, as if he’s working it all out in his head.  And being the over-thinker that I truly am I think he’s quiet because he’s not happy and that makes me want to talk more so I ask him more questions but give him absolutely no time to answer any one of them, “Did you hear me?  Are you mad?  What are you thinking?  Can you say something?”  All he says is, “You’re pregnant?  It’s going to be a boy because there’s no girls in my family.”  And after he said that we both smiled a bit.  He didn’t seem to care that it’s not the “right” time for us to be having a baby.  He was just taken aback that we were going to be parents.  One of many instances where his response was so much calmer and simpler than mine.  He did, however, head straight to the store for some beer, but that didn’t surprise me.  He was celebrating the unexpected yet good news!  

The hubby and I tend to do things ass-backwards.  I’m pretty sure as individuals we both did things our own way and now united it’s no different.  I remember telling my dad when I was a teenager that he would have to be okay with having grandchildren, but no son-in-law because I never thought it possible that I would settle down with someone and commit to for. ev. er. I get bored easily and I’ll be the first to admit I can be a dick, but as cliche as it sounds I canNOT imagine my life without my hubby.  So cheers to getting knocked up by a super special guy that has NO game.  And I will prove it when I tell the tale of his non-proposal and my extremely “dickish” response to it.  

When I decided that it was time to start chronicling my daily dramas, I was having a hard time with a blog name.  This went on for months.  I’m an over-thinker to the core.  I needed a name that embodied all that I am, what I stand for, what I’m talking about… So when I brought my dilemma to the hubby it didn’t take him long to come up with Famous, Slim, and Mighty.  No, these are not heart-warming descriptions of me through my hubby’s eyes.  They are the loving nicknames he calls our three children. Very simple.  Just like my hubby. Now, these nicknames are not their only nicknames nor are they the names I call them, but they just fit together so well so… I went with it. 

FamousMy first born. My lover of all things imaginative.  My sensitive, kind-hearted, inquisitive, young scientist full of love and warmth.

SlimMy quintessential child of the middle.  My Hulk.  My crazy-coordinated, balls to the wall, “I-do-what-I-want” payback for all my adolescent antics.

MightyMy baby girl.  My unknown personality.  The first female born in thirty-something years on my hubby’s side of the family.  My high hopes for the future.

I truly believe writing is therapeutic.  I especially think writing is therapeutic for me.  I’m a person that lives inside of my brain.  An over-thinker, like I mentioned before.  And being that a majority of my time is spent with three foot tall dictators (that are freaking hilarious and say many noteworthy things) BUT can only carry on a conversation for so long about so many topics…  I need a “bigger” audience to commiserate with.  For sanity purposes.  Sometimes my topics will harp on the minutia of daily battles, or doting on the triumphs and the first times, or I might just babble on about how my husband comes home from work and takes his work clothes off and throws them NEXT to the dirty clothes hamper every day and today it might be the straw that breaks this camel’s back.  I don’t know.  My brain is all over the place, but I know the thoughts that live inside my brain need to come out.  And I’ve chosen to share them here.  So… as scary as it is for me to share such an intimate, personal, and precious part of my being with you (yikes!).  I welcome you and your thoughts to my therapy… my blog.