Anyway, though my sons' foreskins may protect me from being peed on, there is no protection from being pooped on.
You can see where this is going.
Yesterday I went to change Coby's sodden diaper. As soon as I opened it, a bit of poo oozed out like a little sausage grinder. "Oops!" I chirped, blissfully unaware of the horrible fate that was soon to befall me. "Mommy will just wait." And so I covered him back up for a minute or two, hoping he'd finish his doody - er, duty. When I peeked back into the diaper, it looked like he had pooped all he was going to poop, so I proclaimed it safe and began to proceed with changing him.
Suddenly, I was sprayed with a projectile arc of bright yellow poo accompanied by a grown-man-sized fart. Thank God Curtis was home. "Help!" I yelled. "Get me something!"
So what did my helpful husband bring?
Between guffaws of laughter, he took photo after photo of my misfortune. "Hurry up!" I shrieked. "This is gross! It's not funny!"
Finally he went to retrieve a towel, still grasping the camera. And just as he walked back into the room ... SPLAT! I was hit with a second tsunami of poop, this time coating the back of my hand, dripping warmly between my fingers. Ironically, it was the hand that was holding the diaper in place to protect against that very thing. Ugh.
And *snap, snap, snap* went the camera.
... Until I smacked Curtis across the face with my poopy hand. Pow!
... Just kidding, but I totally should've.
Anyway, I've refrained from posting the pictures within the blog for those of you with, um, more delicate sensibilities. (You're welcome.) But if you'd like to see the photographic evidence, you can find the pictures here and here.
May your day NOT be as "crappy" as mine. :)
If you don't know who this is, it's our newest son - boy #3, also known as Coby James. Also known as Co-beast, just because I like to give my kids weird nicknames. He
We named him Coby for Curtis's late father, Clarence, whom everyone called "Cob" (because, you know, Clarence? Ugh.) I loved that man so much, and I sorely wish he could've known our children ... but cancer took him before he got the chance.
Coby's middle name, James, is in honor of my big brother James Steven - featured in the following photo, caught in mid-burp. Which is not uncommon. At least he isn't flipping off the camera ... which is also not uncommon.
So far, our newest little man is mellow and easygoing - which is wonderful considering his brothers are four and nineteen months. Because, like, I don't have time for a fussy and difficult baby. So if Coby had been fussy and difficult, well, I would have kicked him to the curb by now.
(Only kidding, of course. I would have just given him to someone who looked clean.)Because I'm a proud mama, and because you're probably tired of reading by now, I'll leave you with a few pictures.
It's so easy to pile on the pounds during pregnancy, though. At least for me it is. I really am always ravenous, right from the first trimester - it's like my version of morning sickness is just extreme hunger. The only way to cure it is to eat. And nobody notices that my ass, hips, and thighs are widening at a frightening pace when my belly looks like I'm smuggling a Volkswagen.
But then I have the baby. And the stomach diminishes. And, whoa! Look what was going on underneath that belly ... construction of a new pair of thunder thighs! Needless to say, I do not relish my new pear shape.
It's really hard for me to deal with, because I used to be damn cute. My first pregnancy absolutely wrecked my body, though. I can lose the weight - I lost 90 pounds within six months of having Cameron - but the stretchmarks? If you've been reading my blog for a while, you already know that my once-sexy stomach serves as a cautionary tale.
(Side note: God bless Curtis, who has seen - and loved - both my pre- and post-baby body!)
Anyway, we may or may not be done having kids ... we can't exactly decide at this point. But I do know this: if I ever have another one, it won't be for at least four years, when my other kids are more self-sufficient (because as I've learned in the past eleven days, having two babies barely 19 months apart is not the easiest thing). So that gives me four years to go from "hot mess" to "hot mom" again.
I'm not starting hardcore on my diet right at this minute. Because I know that, after eating
Well, I'd have to say that all in all, I'm doing pret - oops, hold on a second.
Okay. Sorry. As I was saying, I'm doing pretty well so far. There are just a few th - ugh, sorry again, I'll be right back.
*ahem* Okay, one more time: I'm doing pretty well, but there are a few things I'm having to let fall by the wayside while I learn to deal with - GRRR, hold on.
On second thought, let me just post a few pictures that will speak volumes:
There now: does that answer your question? :)
All in all, she's the total package. So why was she hanging out at my house? In ... Iowa?
A few months back, the powers-that-be behind the uber-cool Moxie Media asked me - ME! - to play hostess to their mascot, Moxie Mona. It seems Mona was traveling around the blogosphere, visiting bloggers all over the United States ... and they needed someone to show her around Iowa. Of course, I jumped at the chance.
I'm reppin' what people call the Quad Cities. The QC is made up of - you guessed it - four cities: Davenport (where I live), Bettendorf, Rock Island, and Moline. Although Rock Island and Moline are in Illinois. But we're only separated by the Mississippi River, and we co-mingle a lot. (Even though the Iowa side is infintesimally more awesome.)
Anyway, it's always nice to show people that there's more to our state than this:
Of course, that IS part of our state - a big part, actually - so that's where we started. And Mona, though appreciative of the view, was all, "This outfit is so not cornfield-friendly." Apparently the corn silks were making her itchy. Who knew?
So we took her to someplace much more cosmopolitan: the John Deere Pavilion.
Moline, one of the four Quad Cities, is the headquarters of John Deere. (You know, the green lawn mowers and farm equipment?) The John Deere Pavilion is an agricultural museum, and Mona checked out the tractors and combines and such. She's a California girl, so I didn't expect her to know much about farm equipment ... but she nearly got us in trouble when she busted out her mad heavy-machinery-operating skillz.
When she was all "farmed out" we took her for some more sightseeing. First to the Centennial Bridge, the gateway between Davenport and Rock Island (and the site of a SPECTACULAR fireworks display every Fourth of July) ...
... Then on to The District, the arts and entertainment hub of Rock Island, where she made a new friend (because, as it turns out, she has a "thing" for guys in fedoras) ...
And since I was hugely pregnant, Mona let my husband - even though he wouldn't be caught dead in a fedora - take her out to the ballgame. The Quad Cities River Bandits game, that is, at Modern Woodmen Park.
Then we showed Mona to the banks of the mighty Mississippi River, where the Celebration Belle steamboat just happened to be paddling its way through the beautiful waters.
And we finished off the day with a little gambling. Because people in Iowa know how to par-tay. Mona won like ten thousand dollars, and coolly pocketed the cash somewhere in that teeny bustier of hers like it was nothing. She didn't even look bulgy afterward (which is totally not fair, because I could carry a postage stamp in my pocket and look like I've gained ten pounds). Oh Mona, how do you do it?
Mona took charge in the delivery room, securing my IV, once again amazing us by pulling a random skill from her hat - er, tiara.
There were so many other things we could have experienced. I mean, our corner of Iowa is more than just corn: we have culture! There's the Figge Art Museum, the Putnam Museum of History & Natural Sciences, Vander Veer Botanical Park, the Quad City Symphony, the little specialty shops in the historic Village of East Davenport ... the list goes on and on. But Mona's touristy sightseeing was cut short by one big, little thing: the birth of our son, Coby.
And she proved to us that she's got a way with the opposite sex. Or with kids. Or both. Just look at how calm and tranquil our new son became in her presence!
I think Mona totally dug Iowa. Itchy cornsilks and all. But being the diva-in-demand that she is, it was time for her to move on to her next location. (And to tell you the truth, I was getting a little weary of fending off the paparazzi that stalk her all the time.)
Ciao, Mona. Or as we say here in exotic Iowa ... bye.
If you'd like to see where Mona's been, or follow her to her next adventure (and find some sweet new bloggage in the meantime), check out her home at Mayhem & Moxie - her entire itinerary can be found there.
Happy trails, everyone! Y'all come back now, hear?
Sometimes, though, even instant convenience foods prove too much for a harried mom of three small and demanding children. I'd gotten the rest of the meal done when Coby (our newborn, in case you're out of the loop) decided he MUST. BE. FED. NOOOOOOOW. Luckily, Curtis had just come home from work, so I handed the duty over to him. Easy, huh? Make the mashed potatoes. Simple, yes? Read the directions on the box. Piece of cake, right? It's not like I asked him to fry the chicken.
But Curtis - poor, ramen-noodle-making, non-direction-reading Curtis - had a bit of trouble. Which is why the first words out of Colin's mouth when presented with his plate were, "Why do my mashed potatoes look like a sponge?"
It's true. They were actually spongy. And stick-to-the-fork stiff.
Both Colin and Cameron spent the entire meal so fascinated by the moldable properties of the potatoes that they neglected to eat anything. Seriously - it was as if we had plopped a mound of Play-Doh onto their plates and were all, "Here kids, don't worry about eating, just play!" After a while, we gave up and let them leave the table with their dinners largely untouched.
(It was mostly because we wanted to play with the potatoes ourselves.)
I made this breathtaking sculpture of modern art:
... and then sacrificed it in the name of showing everyone how, um, sturdy these potatoes really were:
That's a kiss for you, Honey. I know you meant well. But next time ... we'll just do without the potatoes.
... Oh, just me then?
Like any red-blooded American, I enjoy buying stuff. But I practically go into fits of ecstasy when I can buy stuff at a discount. Which is why when I'm shopping online, I looooove to make mad use of the following sites:
If you've ever shopped online (and if you haven't, where have you been?) you know that when you check out, there's always a box where you can type in a coupon code. So where do you get these magical little codes? Why, at the sites I just linked you to, natch! These are awesome resources for savings on just about anything. From free or discounted shipping to two-for-one deals to big-time sale prices, you can almost always find a coupon code for something you need (or something you didn't know you needed but totally must have because it's, like, on sale).
Who knows what you could do with all the money you'll save? Maybe you'll donate it to a worthy cause.
Or maybe just buy more (discounted) stuff. :)
Can you tell I'm skeptical?
Everyone, meet Mona.
She's the cooler-than-me mascot of Moxie Media, she spent the summer traveling the States via the blogosphere, and she graced Iowa - and my humble abode - with her presence! Contrary to popular belief, there's a lot more to our lovely state than this ...
... but you'll have to wait until my post on TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22ND to find out about Mona's Iowan Adventure: her date to the ballpark (with my husband!), her foray into riverboat gambling, and one very awesome event that left even Mona ... completely speechless.
The good thing is, our older two seem to be adjusting perfectly to the new addition. Either Colin and Cameron genuinely do adore Coby (affectionately dubbed "Co-beast"), or they're good at convincing me otherwise while they secretly plot to throw him out with next Thursday's garbage.
The bad thing is, I'm almost four days postpartum. Which means my help is ever-so-slowly diminishing. My mom left today, and Curtis has to go back to work this weekend ... which will leave me alone with the boys, all three
I'm not sure I can handle this, considering the bitter foretaste of it that I got this afternoon. I am not at all exaggerating when I say that within half an hour of my mother's departure, it looked like a freakin' whirlwind swept through this piece. Seriously. Toys and discarded pieces of clothing all over the floor, dishes on the counter. WTF? Does this stuff auto-generate itself? Did my mom have some sort of secret cleanup-bot (think Rosie from the Jetsons) packed in her teeny little safari-printed suitcase?
Not only that, but the second Curtis stepped out of the house to take the dog to pee? OMG. The door closed behind him and suddenly all hell broke loose. Coby starts in with his squealy little cry, which could wake the dead and roughly translates into, "Drop everything and get me onto a boob now, woman!" Colin, meanwhile, is wandering (pantsless) down the stairs whining about wanting to go with Daddy, and Cameron is literally hanging from the refrigerator door wailing, "Milk milk miiiilk!"
Ah ... yeah. I'm totally prepared.
It might not be so overwhelming if I weren't dealing with soreness from practically the neck down (reminder: 9 pound 2 ounce behemoth) and boobs that are suddenly, like, the size of my head.
I think that if ever we decide to have a fourth child, it'll be when I'm rich enough to hire a medical team to fly with me to some posh resort where I can give birth and recover for a few
Hmm. Looks like we're only having three then.
(Whoa, in what universe is THAT fair - seriously?)
Regardless of who did most of the work (*cough*ME*cough*), the end result was worth the effort: our beautiful new son, Coby James, weighing in at 9 pounds, 2 ouches - I mean, ounces - and 21.5 inches long.
I joke about Curtis, but he really is a good labor coach. And it's a good thing, because it got a little scary for a few minutes. In the middle of getting my epidural, my water broke. When I laid down I felt a huge gush, which I thought was normal - until everyone in the room got eerily quiet and the medical personnel started exchanging those furtive "don't say anything" glances. After a couple agonizing minutes of being completely clueless, I was finally allowed to know that a huge piece of my placenta had come out - which could have meant trouble for Coby. Our nurse mentioned the possibility of an emergency C-section, even going so far as to say that if the baby were in jeopardy, they'd put me completely to sleep. Then the phlebotomists came in to draw a blood sample, in the event that I would need a transfusion. And in the midst of it all, I could only think about one thing - our baby - and I prayed that he would be okay.
But they attached a heart monitor to his scalp and happily reported that he didn't seem stressed whatsoever. Crisis averted, I could go back to worrying about more trivial matters:
- My hair, which was like insanely frizzy because I had been too lazy to straighten it
- My ass, which was (and okay, still is) huge and dimply and hanging out in a backless gown
- The fact that I could. Not. Stop. SHAKING!!
- The looming spectre of poop: would I or wouldn't I?
It seemed like it took forever to dilate fully, but once it was time to push, Coby was out in no time. Seriously, a catcher's mitt would have been totally appropriate - because one minute the top of his head was barely visible and the next minute he was shooting out to greet the world. And the sense of relief I felt, both physical and emotional, brought tears to my eyes.
He doesn't look much like either of his brothers, sleeps well, nurses like a champ, and has a squeaky little cry. We'll see how much things change once we leave the hospital tomorrow. For now, I know him in the context of this controlled, monitored, "when did you last feed him and how many soiled diapers has he had" environment. I can't wait to bring him home, where our life together can truly begin.
And oh yeah ... because I know you're all wondering?
But I'm also super-excited, ecstatic beyond words. Because in a few hours - hopefully sooner than later - we'll meet a little man who will change our lives forever. Our new son. Coby.
Right now I can't imagine my life with him ... but by the end of today, I won't be able to imagine my life without him.
We'll update as soon as possible. Wish us luck. :)
But my reproductive system, you know, it's ... special. It seems normal upon examination, except for a tilted uterus, but looks can be deceiving. I mean, it took five whole years and numerous infertility treatments before it could figure out how to even get pregnant in the first place. And then once it finally caught on, it seemed to get the gestation part down pat - but the whole dilation and birth thing? Not so much. I swear, I could dig in there with a spoon and I wouldn't dilate more than a stupid centimeter. Which is why all my boys, including this one, have had to be coaxed out with inductions. (And in some cases, a pork chop.)
So anyway, at 7 o'clock Monday morning, I will be
I'll leave you with this ... lovely photo I took today at the gyno's office. (And I promise you - though I may currently resemble a '70s porn star "down South," that hair did NOT come from my nether regions.)
Happy weekend, everyone!
Here's what MY version of nesting looks like: frizzy, matted-with-sweat hair. Huge awkward stomach hanging over the waistband of the only pair of pants I can still comfortably wear. The stench of B.O. (my own ... gross) and bleach and various cleaners. Lots of colorful language (okay, the F-bomb) as I scrub things, spill things, and try-but-fail to reach into crevices I've never cleaned before. Huffing and puffing like a 450-pound man trying to run a marathon. Yelling at my kids to "stay out of here, I've just cleaned!" Finding half-eaten pieces of string cheese in strange places.
There's nothing cute about any of that.
I need to invent a new word for "nesting."
Yeah. I don't want to be that girl.
So I'm hoping that when I do finally edge my way onto the dance floor, I won't be squarely putting myself in a prime "OMG-look-that-chick-thinks-she-can-dance" position. I mean, if I dance like an out-of-touch white girl, I might as well print up a T-shirt that screams "MAKE FUN OF ME!" I'd better make sure, before I ever head out for a night on the town (if I even remember what that is any more!) that I've brushed up on my best moves.
The "Cabbage Patch" and "Roger Rabbit" are still cool, right?
.... Right? ;)
Twitter is pretty cool because you can share snippets of your life in 140-character-or-less "tweets." Some of my most recent tweets:
- Can anybody else eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting? ... No? ... Just me then? ... *runs away*
- My 4-year-old actually requests wedgies. What is WRONG with this child?
- Crap. Forgot it was trash day.
- One hour until bedtime, one hour until bedtime, one hour until bedtime...
Like any other social networking tool, though, there's a definite downside to Twitter. And for me, that's the spam followers: people who follow you - i.e., subscribe to your tweets - just because they want to invite you to "Click here for my XXX site!" or "See how I make $10,000 a week on Twitter!" or other similar crap.
Note to spam followers: I don't want to see "exclusive video" of Britney Spears going down on some skeezy backup dancer. Nor do I have the desire to look at anything on Paris Hilton that's further south than, like, the top of her head. I'm not stupid enough to believe I can make $10 grand a week on anything, let alone freakin' Twitter. And unless you're Johnny Depp, I'm not into viewing your naked cam, thanks.