Category Archives: Bed Rest

Lip balm used to be the highlight of my day but now it’s just part of it.

Back when I was pregnant with Penelope, I was on bed rest for twelve weeks. A lot of people have jokingly admitted to me that the Butt Rust era was probably just about the best time ever for this blog, and they’re probably right. I was posting almost every day, definitely every weekday, a lot of times even twice. I had a lot of time to sit – lay – around and think about ridiculous stuff, when I wasn’t being shuttled to two or three appointments a week, or being checked in and out of labor and delivery on the regular. I also did a lot of puzzle books, and I colored, and I watched all of Battlestar Galactica and all of Wings. It was definitely an interesting time, in both the most extreme sense of interesting and the totally opposite of interesting kind of way.

When you have to stay in bed all day, there’s just no real delineation between daytime laying in bed and nighttime laying in bed. It’s all just laying in bed. So I got in this habit of putting on my lemon EOS lip balm at night. I really liked it. But I would only do it right before I settled down to sleep at night, which was different, of course, from my mid-morning nap and my afternoon nap and my predinner eyeshutting and any other sleeping-because-what-else-am-I-going-to-do. It didn’t take long before it was the highlight of my whole day. That’s kind of a pretty shitty situation to be in, one where putting on lip balm to signify the dividing line between “okay, I’m laying here because I’m medically required to lay here so as not to accidentally have a stroke on my way to the kitchen” and “now I’m laying here because it’s regular person sleeping hours.” It was a really good time for my blog, for sure, but that was a distracting shell over the whole wretchedness of the entire situation. It’s long past now, so I don’t see the need to re-explain all the medical details I don’t think I ever really explained in the first place, but I think it’s reasonable to assume that anyone reading knows that a pregnant woman confined to her bed for months on end isn’t there for fun and games and that things aren’t good. Aren’t good. At. All.

If Phil and I stick to our current plan – there aren’t guarantees of anything, but it is the plan in place at the moment of this writing, which is today but not tomorrow or any other day you might read this, so this sentence doesn’t actually bind me or Phil or anyone to anything nor can it be referenced in any kind of future “GOTCHA!” way should plans change – to have just one kid, I don’t think I’ll ever really come to grips with my feelings of unfairness with regard to Garlic Bread, and the guilt attached to having feelings of unfairness related to a living, healthy child. I think the advent of the jokey “first world problems” meme has summed up the feeling in a tongue in cheek kind of way, the feeling of being unable to acknowledge something annoying (or legitimately shitty) without at the same time recognizing that some – many – people have it much worse. First world problem: no fortune cookies with my takeout. Real problem: SOME PEOPLE HAVE NO COOKIES AT ALL EVER. Effect:  I’m kind of a bad person for even giving a crap about my fortune cookie, considering all the cookieless people. Yet, I still have no cookie and I did want a cookie. I’m going down an analogy path I don’t want to take, let’s regroup below.

Right now, as the plan stands, we’ve got Penelope and that’s it. Sometimes I wish – well, wish is the wrong word, and so is wonder, which I also tried, so I’m just going to stick with wish – that things would have been different with her pregnancy. Of course I do, it was wretched. I want a do-over, I want another one. Another pregnancy, that went the way pregnancy is supposed to go. All the way to 40 weeks – or, by the way the whole Garlic Bread thing shaped up in the end, maybe more than that. All the way to the end ON TWO FEET. To have a whole maternity wardrobe, instead of not bothering – men’s  gym shorts and t-shirts are fine when you never need to be out of pajamas. All that superficial kind of stuff, minus, you know, the medical misery and discomfort and danger and all of that. I’d like the whole kid experience without the giant ball of negative attached to the front end of it all. I’ve only got the one kid and only plan to have the one. I’d like another pregnancy with the same result, the same kid. A different, better pregnancy. It’s been over two years and I still think the whole thing was unfair. But then, I’m an adult. I can’t even think the word “unfair” without feeling like an enormous brat. I can’t think about something in my life being unfair without thinking about how good I do have it compared to others. To people whose pregnancies similar to mine had much worse outcomes. To people whose children aren’t healthy. Or to people who just want to be pregnant at all. At least I was pregnant and had Penelope, and she’s here and we get to keep her. So, then, guilt. Because sure, getting her was unpleasant, but she’s here now, and not everyone gets to have a perfect everything, and the whole saga of me getting pregnant, and the labor, and the delivery, and the NICU, and the next hospitalization, and the postpartum anxiety, and the VUR, and the year of monitoring and specialists, and the subsequent surgery, and the more monitoring – anyway, that’s getting past pregnancy, a bit – all of that is done and finished and we’re here now with our healthy kid.

Anyway, I was reading Swistle’s blog the other day because SHE ALSO GOT A TURBIE TWIST FOR CHRISTMAS (actually she gave some, but she’s also enjoying one, so close enough for bonding). That’s not why I was reading it, I always read Swistle’s blog. I have a category in my feed reader that serves up my “first to read” blogs whenever I open it, and hers is in there, among the ones I read first. I would have read it whether or not she got a Turbie Twist. But I mention the Turbie Twist because I was driven by our new connection to comment, so I was on her actual blog rather than reading through my reader, which caused me to be reminded of her tagline – one of the best ones in blogging, I think, because it neatly shuts down a lot of the common complaints about bloggers/blogging, and also helps me (because, ME) feel okay about a lot of the things I have to say here, and, okay, have to say in general.

“I acknowledge my luckiness, without giving up my claim to the suckiness.”

And while I washing dishes last night and thinking about this post, I kept coming back to that line, because I guess I do. I acknowledge that we have Penelope, and we are very lucky for it, especially in light of the incredibly large range of child-related struggles of friends and acquaintances.  But at the same time, I don’t give up my (our, but honestly, Phil needs to just write his own blog) claim to how sucky certain parts of it all have been. To be clear, no one I know has ever shamed me for dwelling or struggling with my experience with Garlic Bread – sometimes the opposite, in fact. I tend to separate Garlic Bread off from Penelope and deal with them separately, or one not really at all, except for brief flashes of unfairness/regret, which is of course followed quickly by that guilt. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to really get past that Garlic Bread/Penelope separation, though, and the regrets and frustrations and stress attached to the whole thing, if every time I think back to that time, any negative thoughts are slapped down by guilt and self-shaming about how good I actually had/have it. The fact is, there was a long stretch of time where the highlight of my day was putting on lip balm, because it marked the end point of another day that I made it through without a medical emergency, without having to check into the hospital for the duration, and without having to delivery a severely premature baby.


Vaseline Lip Therapy in Rosy Lips

EOS lip balm in the weird ball shape is probably still my favorite and most useful lip balm, but I wanted to tell you about this Best/Worst most Useful/Useless lip balm in the world. I talked a while ago about how my face was getting really bad at facing, remember? You don’t need to, this is the Internet, it’s still available for you to refer to forever, even if I start to regret saying it some day. It’s right here. My lips were not excluded from that issue. This isn’t usually a huge problem, because I tend to lean toward darker lipsticks which cover a multitude of sadnesses and crimes and tear-filled journal entries about raindrops and, I don’t know, I don’t have much beyond surface feelings, I’m trying to draw on a teenage experience I didn’t have. But I do love mattes these days, and also, I have a few lighter shades that are essential for my newer attempts at a no-makeup makeup look, in my efforts to be a little more appropriate for various occasions, see question 31 of the 2013 year end wrap up. If your lips are all dried up, matte lipsticks and light shades are going to look like a pile of hot garbage.

One of the things that you absolutely need to do if you’re going to wear lighter lipstick shades or ESPECIALLY with mattes like the Revlon Matte Balms (I really like this formula and haven’t yet picked up a color I don’t like) or NYX Matte lipsticks (I like Alabama and I think I’ve only tried one other in the line, so unless you’re looking for a deep, deep red, I can’t offer a lot on that variety, but the reviews are fantastic) (also, I was going to put Amazon affiliate links here, because someone insinuated that the fact that I haven’t used them at all in a million years of blogging was unintelligent of me, but as I suspected, I found it hasslely, so let’s cut out the middle man, and some of you get really offended that I dared, and I get offended that you got offended, and we all talk behind each other’s backs, and then move on like it never even happened), do you remember what we were talking about? I was about to tell you that aside from lip balm – I really want to type lip BLAM! – you also need to exfoliate your lips. There are a couple of ways to do this. Soft tooth brush, homemade sugar scrub, purchased lip scrub, any kind of scrub.

Personally, for exfoliation, I’ve been using the e.l.f. Lip Exfoliator. It’s from the Studio Line of e.l.f. products, and it’s $3. It’s basically a sugar scrub, formed into a lipstick. Big grains of sugar in some kind of binding material. At first, the top layer of the moisturizing, binding stuff made it feel not especially effective, but after a few uses, that wears away and the sugar does get quite abrasive. I don’t think that this is anything special, though, compared to other lip scrubs you could buy or make, so it depends on the type of person you are. If you like making this kind of stuff, do that. If you want to buy a different brand, do that. The things this one has going for it – it’s $3, it’s in a convenient form. I don’t like sticking my fingers into my makeup/products very much. It’s a holdover from when I had really, really terrible skin in middle school and just reflexively try to keep my hands off my face and keep my hands off of things that are going to go on my face. e.l.f. products are sold at most Targets, but I haven’t seen this particular one at mine, which is a pain. The site does run constant sales, though, if you sign up for the mailing list, which is of the creepy variety that emails you immediately after you visit the site to tell you it missed you. I like to wait for a sale that offers a combination of free shipping and a percentage off the Studio line to grab a few things. The brand is very hit and miss, but there are a few things I like. In general, products in black packaging (the Studio line, $3 or $6) are better than those in white (usually $1-$2). There are a couple of Studio brushes I like, along with the HD setting powder, and I’m going on and on here, but if you’re interested in the lip exfoliator and can’t find it in store, there are a few things on the site that, when on sale, make a stock-up purchase worthwhile.

When I was Christmas shopping, I spotted this Vaseline Lip Therapy in Rosy Lips among the stocking stuffers at Target. I don’t know if it was supposed to be there, because it was the only one, but since my lips were about to set out across the desert to find themselves and possibly their real family among the cacti on some kind of vision quest, I grabbed it on a whim. It has been the best/worst and most useful/useless lip balm ever.


With an elephant, for scale.

First, I am pretty sure I grabbed this because it is adorable. It is a tub of Vaseline, except it is miniature. It is 0.25 oz. It’s Vaseline for ants. Vaseline for terrifying ants. Terrifying ants with chapped lips. It’s tiny size lends to the idea that you just pop it in your purse for on the go lip balm application. Just reach in your purse, and BLAM! Tiny Vaseline, for your lips. Except, no. You can’t use this that way at all. By you, I mean me, and probably also you. I’m really making an effort to think about this reasonably and not just in the “my way is obviously the only way” kind of way, but I’m having a hard time, because my way is obviously the only way.

Backing up. I got this in the “shade” Rosy Lips, because it was the only one there at the time, but I probably would have anyway. This are a bitch and a half (hi, sorry, the language, let’s talk about it tomorrow) to find online, so I’m not linking to them anywhere, because you should look for them in stores. Since I got mine before Christmas, I’ve seen them in Target with the Vaseline, not with other lip balms and lip products. They’re $1.77 at my Target, and there were other kinds – original Vaseline, cocoa butter, and maybe something else? I could look it up. I put “shade” in quotation marks up there, because while it’s clearly pink in the tub, it doesn’t make my lips especially rosy. Since my liptone is a fairly neutral pink, I swatched it on the back of my hand to check, and there was no rosiness there, either. So you wouldn’t be missing out on any flattering color if you decided to go with cocoa butter or some medicated version that might or might not exist, I don’t know, because I didn’t look it up.

I’ve been putting this on at night, after using the e.l.f. lip treatment, along with a whole pile of other stuff I’ve started using on my face in the battle against the side effects of my medication and also the fact that, FINE, I GUESS I’M ALSO SEVERAL YEARS OLDER THAN I WAS SEVERAL YEARS AGO. I don’t have anything to say about any of that yet, because lips show things much faster than faces. I may or may not report later. I’m unreliable. (HEY, POTENTIAL FUTURE BOSSES, WHAT’S UP.) And it’s good! It’s thick. It’s… Vaseline. (Tangerines.) It’s thicker than I’d use in the daytime, I think, but I also use a thicker lotion at night, so it works in that way. I’m really pleased with it as part of my nighttime routine and how it’s helping combat not only the dehydrating side effects of my medications, but also the winter air and my nighttime mouth breathing. That’s a pretty tall order, and it’s hanging in.

BUT YOU CAN’T GO ANYWHERE WITH THIS. This little tub – it’s a TUB. There’s no application method with this. You must stick your finger directly in it. And it’s Vaseline. (Magazines.) When, throughout your day, is an appropriate time for your index finger to be coated in Vaseline? That’s setting aside the long term ramifications of sticking your finger repeatedly into something goopy you apply to your mouth, back and forth, over and over again. It’s not good. You can’t apply this on the go. Maybe at the very beginning of the tub, when the surface of the goop is at the very top, you can swipe a light layer onto the pad of your index finger and then onto your lips, and that’s fine. As use continues, though, the product gets lower down in there, and the size of the tub makes the angle of… finger-sticker-innery… such that there has to be a slight scooping motion, meaning that one, there’s always going to be just a little too much goop, and two, if you have fingernails of any length, some is going to get under. So you have to clean your finger after you put this on. World-ending? No. But I think that means this is not an out of the house lip balm.

Even if you don’t mind a good finger-gooping now and then, we were all becolded over Christmas, and you know when Vaseline shines? When every part of you is rattley and wheezey and dried out and husked up. I use a Q-tip to get my Vaseline lip therapy out of the tub each time and I only dip it once, because if not, then the tub would ALSO BE BECOLDED. AND RUINED. And do you KNOW how many times I would go to Target before I remembered to pick up a new tub? Probably a THOUSAND. Which means that I would say a lot of bad things when trying to apply an appropriate shade of lipstick for church (which no one determines but me, but still), because my lips would look like HOT GARBAGE, and that’s what happens when you have a lip balm that is SUPER USEFUL in healing crappy lips, with the most USELESS format ever.

Except, you can just use a Q-tip and also not take it anywhere and just use it at home, at bedtime, and I also recommend using it in tandem with your lip exfoliating method of choice. You’ll probably want to stick with your regular purse/pocket balm for daytime needs, but I think this is a pretty solid addition to whatever nighttime routine you’ve got going on. It’s just a regular part of my day, not a significant one. You can probably find Vaseline Lip Therapy at Target, or any number of other drugstores.


And it was nice to have someone say that.

If you’re here for pictures of Penny, here are some. I’m going to say some words after the pictures, so you can feel free to just hop off the post-train right after the images if that’s how you’re feeling today. We all have those days. You can come on back tomorrow. I’ll still be here.

You don’t impress Penny very much.
Also, she is wearing a comically large 0-3 month sized sun… romper… thing.
We weighed her! She’s 9 lbs! Why is my 9 lb, almost 6 week old baby so oddly wee?

Penny thinks nursing is totally baby stuff.
She’s all, “Nursing? Psh, been doing it my whole life. Totally casual.”

Here’s the part with words. For those leaving us at this point, I hope you have a lovely day.

Yesterday, I had my final pregnancy-related appointment with Dr. Nameless. It was quick – he checked my incision in the exam room, and then we went over to his office to sit down and have the talk about prevention. I don’t feel that I’m going to discuss that part with you, Internet.

However, in addition to prevention, we talked about what might happen if things were not prevented, either on purpose or through poor prevention practices or just general falling into the 2% failure rate of some chosen method of prevention. What I wanted to know was, how likely was the whole situation with blood pressure and Butt Rust and inducing and all of that to happen again. I’m not going to go into science or anything, but basically, Dr. Nameless said that the chances weren’t 100% or even some high percent, but better than a coin flip. And I mean “better” in the sense of it being more likely than a coin flip, even though “better” implies something good, which it absolutely would not be.

Anyway, that is definitely a factor in whether or not Phil and I would ever have another kid. Even pre-Penny creation, we were relatively certain that we only wanted one kid – one kid fits best with the plans and ideals and state of our current life and fits in nicely with the life we intend to have in the future. Of course, my whole pregnancy experience didn’t do anything but more solidly cement the idea of solo el kid-o for us.

However, neither of us feel that 6 weeks after having our first kid is the best time to take any permanent measures, which some smug assholes see as indication that we will CHANGE OUR MINDS.

You guys, the whole “YOU’LL CHANGE YOUR MIND” thing is not solely reserved for people who have decided not to have children. It is only crowed even MORE triumphantly and JERKILY at people who indicate their intentions to have just one kid. And it is JUST as irritating.

I’ve said before that just because we changed our minds from our previous no kid stance to having Penny does not mean that we think mind changing is inevitable. I’ll say again – if you’ve decided not to have children, I don’t even think it’s likely that you’ll change your mind. Sometimes people do. I did. But if you tell me, “I don’t want children,” I ABSOLUTELY believe you. I have NO REASON to insist that you’ll change your mind, as if you must, as if EVERYONE eventually does, because they don’t.

And if someday you say to me, “Hey, I changed my mind,” I’ll be all, “Oh, that’s great!” or “Congratulations!” or “Good luck!” or whatever feels appropriate. I will NOT say, “I knew it!” or “I told you so!” like some kind of butt wad, because if I did, I’d have to PUNCH MYSELF IN THE FACE.

You should consider a self-face-punch if you’re one of those people who insists on telling me (or other anyone) that they will change their mind about having a second kid.

MAYBE I WILL. If I do, though, you didn’t “know it” in advance. At this point, it’s impossible to “know it.” Because at this point, it’s not happening. No one can “know it” if I don’t know it. To claim to “know it” is to also make an auxiliary claim to being a HUGE WANG, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? The fact that I’m not running out to have my tubes tied doesn’t give you some huge SCOOBY DOO CLUE that another baby is in my future. It means that my husband and I acknowledge that we are living, changing beings who continue to evolve as individuals and in our relationship together and also that people who are extremely sleep deprived living in a house that is flooded ANKLE DEEP with rage and hormones are not in any position to make any kind of MAJOR LIFE DECISIONS.

The worst thing, though, for me, is when I indicate that my pregnancy experience is now an added factor in my intention to not have any further children and the person I am talking to says, “Oh, just wait. You’ll forget about all of that and want another.”

You know what that is? That’s insulting and frankly, kind of hurtful. Now, none of you reading are like this, I’m sure, because I have to say that the Internet was NOTHING but supportive during the whole ordeal and actually a great prop up when it came to acknowledging that the whole thing sucked and that it was okay to hate it and feel that it JUST PLAIN SUCKED.

But those other people who discount the whole thing, who say I’ll forget it when I become overwhelmed with the need for another kid – I don’t think you know what you’re saying, or you wouldn’t say such things, or you do know what you’re saying and you’re just an asshole. But what it sounds like to me is that you’re no longer seeing me as the person I have always been for the entirety of my life, but instead as someone whose personality and preferences and experiences have been totally erased or at least entirely trumped by the advent of motherhood.

Which, come on. Shut up.

I get that motherhood and being a parent in general and having this kid is all a huge deal and changes my whole life and blah blah and all of that, but my experiences prior to this kid aren’t negated. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it all again – I would.

For Penny.

If you told me way back whenever that at the end of the whole thing would be PENNY, SPECIFICALLY – this baby, the one that has been hanging out here for a few weeks now – I probably would have been about 6% more cheerful about the whole ordeal. I’d get through it with a better attitude, at least.

But just like it was hard to feel great during this pregnancy because I didn’t know Penny – Garlic Bread, at the time – any other future kid is hypothetical. I don’t know any future kid. When you say that I’ll change my mind and have a second kid and specifically cite the reason that I’ll “forget” everything that went on, you’re saying that the idea of a child – any child, a baby for the sake of a baby, a HYPOTHETICAL THEORY OF A PERSON – is enough to overcome what was, frankly, an extremely difficult, uncomfortable, scary and unpleasant experience. MY experience.

Maybe I’m not being too clear or maybe it’s just my own neurosis, but “You’ll change your mind, because you’ll forget all the misery, etc, because, yay, more babies!” sounds to me like, “Whatever happened to you before doesn’t matter because only babies matter.” I don’t know. I’m not explaining it right.

The thing is, though, when we were talking about options with Dr. Nameless, he was the FIRST AND ONLY PERSON to say to me, “I think you two will be good parents, but I would not blame you a bit if you decided not to have any more children after this rough pregnancy.”

Like, “I acknowledge that your experience sucked enough to trump what some smug wang wrinkles assume is the inevitability of a second child.”

I didn’t really realize how nice it would be to hear such a thing until I heard it, and it was most especially validating to hear coming from Dr. Nameless, who probably enjoys repeat business.

In summation, quit saying, “You’ll change your mind.” Even if someone didn’t have a rough pregnancy. Because it’s just rude. Stop being rude. Why do I have to keep explaining this stuff, Internet? I mean, honestly. Sometimes I think that you and I are the only common sense-having non-ass candles left on this planet, you know?

40 weeks.

About 15 weeks ago, we were informed that Garlic Bread was a huge troublemaker, launching a vicious attack on my life, and that I would need to take to my bed to allow the little baked good from hell the best chance of getting big enough to wreak her havoc on the entire world, not just me.

8 weeks ago, Garlic Bread was all,

“I’m a fetus, and I’m inconveniently upside down!”

7 weeks ago, Garlic Bread was all,

“Stop kicking yourself! Stop kicking yourself! Haha, I’m kidding! It’s me, Garlic Bread! I’m kicking you! And I’m not stopping! Ever!”

And then three weeks ago, I was having some gel put into my business with the intent of making the next 2 days of my life a living hell that has all blurred together in a haze of pain, tears, dignity stripping, drugs, chemicals, incisions, bruises and general unhappiness.

And today, Penny’s all,

I’m Penny
It’s my due date
I’m going to wriggle out of these “newborn” size clothes like it’s my due date

And once I’ve freed myself from my pants, I’m going to wriggle some more until I have plumber crack and then I’m going to poop right out of this diaper and I’m not going to give you any indication that I’ve done so until I’ve had a good long while to roll around in it leaving you to discover I have pooped all over the outside of my diaper and up into my shirt after I’ve had a chance to really smear it around in an artful fashion
Like it’s my due date

Even though Penny has been here for almost 3 weeks now ( here as in, out of the Hut – she’s only been home for a bit over a week), and even though I went through all that labor, and even though I felt her get pulled out and then appear over the drape, I still cannot connect Garlic Bread to Penny in my mind. Logically I know that the demon seed that was in there is the same baby that is right here, but it’s not really sinking in at all.

In fact, even looking back at pictures of myself pregnant is surreal. No, actually, more like unreal. I know I was pregnant, I know all of the bed rest and the worry and the appointments and the HUGENING happened, but I feel so far removed from it that it really doesn’t seem like it did. I don’t feel like I was ever pregnant (aside from the burning “healing” pain that shoots through my incision on the regular) and even after all the delivery drama, I feel like Penny kind of just appeared.

I wonder if I have some kind of weird mental block against the whole pregnancy. I can acknowledge that it all happened, but I feel so completely separate from it that I might as well be looking at pictures of someone else, or reading the pregnancy accounts of someone else. While a baby that randomly appeared from nowhere sits next to me.


Here’s a joke that Phil made today!

“Penny’s stump finally fell off. Can you… look at it? There’s something weird.”

“Ok… well, it looks all right to me. It will probably look more like a normal belly button with time.”

“Yeah, but… sometimes it looks like there’s something in it. Like… ooze.”

“Well, maybe there’s a secret.

That’s right, Internet. You CAN believe your eyes. It was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles joke. One that referenced the LIVE ACTION MOVIE.

And that’s why he gets to wear the team jersey.

Until I am enough weeks old enough to tell you how embarrassing and UNFUNNY you two are, you will have to interpret my disdainful expressions.

PS – You’re not funny.

No, but seriously. It’s Penny’s due date today, and in any normal pregnancy, especially first time pregnancy, I’d likely still be pregnant right now, and that just BLOWS MY MIND, because it’s almost like I can barely recognize the idea that I was ever pregnant at ALL. I mean, you know how she was trying to kill me, what with the high blood pressure and all? Like, 150-ish/90-something? At last check, my blood pressure was 117/70. I have completely looped away from death. Honestly, except for the fact that when the elastic on my pajama pants is a little too snug, my deflated bouncy castle-esque belly actually forms itself into a POINT, it’s like the whole thing never happened at all.

Oh, and also the baby. The baby is also evidence that it all happened.

We call her Penny.

So. Everyone. Thank you all so much for all of the messages and excitement about the arrival of Garlic Bread. I’m not even going to pretend that I can respond to all of the comments, tweets and emails, but I’ll do the best I can and I hope you know that I’ve read them all and continue to.

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you’ve already seen a couple more pictures, but once all that eye goop came off and she got a little less newborn shell shocked, she really cutened up even more:

From the first second they held her up to show me, I’ve still been trying to grasp the concept that I was ACTUALLY LOOKING at the little Demon Bread who had given me such grief from the inside. I’d be suspicious, because I couldn’t see, of course, but Phil peeked over the sheet at the appropriate moment and confirms that she definitely came directly out of the Hut.

As I said on Friday, she came out through the roof of the Hut. Like the rest of the pregnancy, it wasn’t how we hoped things would go, especially since I went in to be induced on Wednesday. I was actually supposed to be induced on Tuesday. It’s all a very long story and I really want to tell it, but I’m going to have to ask for an extension on that.

I know I don’t have to ask you to be patient with me, Internet, but I’m not the type to abuse your good will. I’m recovering from a c-section that occurred after Pitocin labor, and the initial endorphins have really worn off as of last night. Right now, I really need to focus all of my energy on my own recovery so that I (and Phil, of course) can dedicate our full attentions to Penny.

I don’t have a lot of details right now, and to be honest, I’m still coping quite poorly on my own and don’t think I could really discuss it if I wanted to, but I wanted to let you all know – Penny was taken to the NICU yesterday, less than 24 hours after her birth. We are still waiting to find out what exactly is going on, but she will be down there for at least another day or so – possibly a week or more. As you can imagine, the not knowing combined with our baby just being here and then… not here anymore… is a little overwhelming for two brand new parents.

We have no reason to believe she won’t be fine. Seriously. This isn’t a good situation, to be sure, but she is going to be okay. To be honest, I’m more inclined to ask for your good thoughts for Phil and I than for her, because she’s in such good hands and will come out of this well. He and I, however, have been through a pregnancy that didn’t go as planned, a delivery that didn’t go as planned, and now first days with our astoundingly adorable baby that are not going as planned. Sometimes making it all the way to having a full term baby means everything goes just perfectly, and sometimes it doesn’t.

Everything is going to be fine, but I know you all understand that even though I am made of 85% Internet, 15% sandwiches and various potato products, we really need some time to focus on recovery for all of us. I’ll keep up with Twitter and Facebook as much as I can, but for now, I intend to dedicate my time to sleeping, shuffling back and forth to the NICU, and taking advantage of my wonderful hospital’s extensive yogurt menu. Also, trying to get Phil to slow down and let himself rest. Because he hasn’t. Since February. My parents are visiting and intend to be helpful, so if anyone can think of a way I can slip an elephant tranquilizer into Phil’s food so that he’ll take some time for himself, I’d appreciate it.

Speaking of Phil, here are the two sides of Phil:

This is his last thumbs as a non-parent, right before I went to surgery.
Just after this, he stood over my bed, looking down at me, and he says,
“I just farted in my scrubs.”

And then? Less than a day later? He looked like this:

Can you even stand it?

I am pretty sure I am on target to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow – Tuesday at the latest. We’re hoping to take Penny home with us when when leave and right now, I’m not even thinking about how it might feel to go home without her. We live close, though, and have all confidence in our hospital and our nurses to watch over her between our visits until we can bring her home.

Anyway, Internet, I’m rambling. I’ve had a lot of painkillers. I feel awkward and don’t really know what to say about this whole thing. I can’t really answer questions right now except to tell you that she’ll be okay and that we can’t wait to bring her home to Brinkley and Sheldon.

And again, of course – all of the messages – thank you all so much. We appreciate it. A lot.

Up to the minute breakdown by the numbers.

3: Number of ultrasounds I have had – this WEEK.

3: Also the number of NSTs I have had this week. (With another set for Sunday)

9: My collection of L&D hospital bracelets (7 standard, 2 bright orange ALLERGY bracelets)

10: Episodes of Beebleboob Galerktiker left to go before I will even consider de-Hutting this Bread, so help me.

14: Episodes of Wings I have watched during the day, since I finally caught up to where Phil left off in the Beebleboob, and we are watching one or two episodes together each night instead of my all day marathons.

22: Personal items I have stored in Garlic Bread’s co-sleeper next to my bed.

8: Unique places I have been prodded for blood in the last two weeks.

5: Number of different beds I have gotten to lay in during my 11.5 weeks of bed rest so far. This does not include ultrasound beds or NST recliners and also doesn’t account for the fact that I’ve made the rounds of L&D enough that I’ve doubled up in some of the triage rooms.

5: Days left to go until Garlic Bread achieves FULL TERM BAKED-NESS, CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT.

120+: My heart rate, on the regular these days. Ultra-uncomfortable.

6 & 7: Garlic Bread’s current estimated pounds and ounces. Oink oink, too many Twinkies! (I’m kidding, Bread. Twinkie it up. I hear the bigguns sleep better sometimes. TWINKIE TWINKIE TWINKIE.)

2 jillion: My mom’s excitement level, on a scale of one to one jillion.

4: Number of reasons I gave my mom for not flying out right now just because she’s excited and impatient.

5: Number of counter-arguments presented to aforementioned reasons.

1: Of us, hanging her head in defeat.

3: Number of roundabout ways my mother tried to get me to kind of, sort of, in a waaaaay promise not to have a baby until she can get here, even though of course no such thing can be promised.

6: Number of high fives solicited from Phil this morning. Breakdown of fives: one for both of us reaching adulthood with zero STDs, 3 for excellent blood pressure readings, 1 for Garlic Bread’s performance on her 3rd NST of the week, 1 insisted upon after the nurse left the room mentioning how impressed she was by my JUGS of shame.

2: That’s right, I said JUGSSSSSSS. They sent me home with two on Wednesday because I’m pretty sure they had heard tell of my powers.

1: Minute past 7am the nurse called Dr. Nameless this morning, at my insistence, wanting to know if I could go home before my test results came back, because come ooooooon.

1: Test I still had left to take before the phone call was even made, because come oooooooon.

170: Number of pounds of dog we have in this house.

10: Number of pounds of dog my parents are prepared to deal with. Also the age of dog they are prepared to deal with.


Jake. The only dog to ever set foot in my parents’ house.
And he’s on the CARPET. I’m barely allowed on the carpet.
And my mom snuck him some HAM.

6: Other ideas I had for items on this list that I forgot halfway through typing them out.

9: “Money” ultrasound shots we have. Honestly, if, knock on wood that you don’t, you ever end up with a pregnancy that requires weekly ultrasounds, once you have well and truly satisfied yourself of the baby’s sex, let the techs know they DO NOT NEED to give you ANY MORE PICTURES of the baby’s area. Especially not ones with arrows and “I’m still a girl!!” or “Girl parts!!” typed on them in COMIC SANS. Feet? Cute. Little hands? ADORABLE. Profile? Want to pinch the cheeks. Vagina? What the hell am I going to do with NINE PICTURES of fetal vagina? Throwing them out feels really wrong. Keeping them also feels really wrong. I’m trapped in wrong by fetal vagina.

10: Number of days of break I’m going to try to take from saying the word “vagina,” but I’m pretty pregnant right now, and we all know that the end of pregnancy is pretty much all vagina all the time, so I make no promises. Also, it starts… now. Not at the start of this list item. Or I would have already failed.

2: Number of specific days I did not want to have Garlic Bread. April 20th, because I don’t think 4:20 jokes are even REMOTELY FUNNY, especially considering the type of people most likely to make them. April 23rd, because it’s exactly 6 months to the day from our wedding day, and I know Garlic Bread is going to figure it out eventually, but we don’t need to make the counting backwards that easy on her. (I did not and will not have/be having her on either of those days. I should make a note to collect another high five from Phil.)

?: Number of episodes of Wings I plan to watch today. Not sure. A lot. However many it takes for me to get to Antonio.

Alton Brown would totally allow this thing in his kitchen.

Get it? Alton Brown? In his kitchen? Because it does so many things? And he has that rule? About things that only do one thing? Don’t you guys watch television? What the hell?

Anyway, if you haven’t picked up on it yet, we got to take another whirlwind tour of Labor & Delivery last night. I had my 36 week appointment with Dr. Nameless yesterday afternoon and got sent over to the hospital for some extra testing. Once again, I had Phil drop me off at the door and head home, because I was pretty sure it would be yet another in and out trip, and it was. I am at home, and Garlic Bread remains firmly lodged inside. I have returned to my own bed with yet ANOTHER print out of self-care instructions dictating that I am to be on STRICT BED REST.

I’m not feeling very well, though, with all kinds of those fake contractions and crazy fetal behavior and blood pressure that is creeping up and various other things that lead my doctor to send me over to the hospital in the first place, so I’ve got to assume that we’re getting close to the end. Dr. Nameless did say that this whole thing was progressive and really more a matter of when than of if. Still, just a week to go until an official full term baby, so that definitely seems easily within reach right now.

Which totally brings me conveniently to another point! Another Thing I Have Learned From Pregnant Lady Message Boards!

So, most message boards having to do with pregnancy are broken up into all kinds of topics, and that includes topics around due dates. Like, one for each month, or at least ones broken down by trimester. The boards I read, of course, are 3rd trimester or May 2011 boards, considering that I am in my 3rd trimester and due in May of 2011. So, you see how that works, right? I just want to be sure.

Basically, it’s all women at about the same point in their pregnancy that I am, so the boards tend to trend along with pregnancy milestones. For a while, there were a ton of posts about NT scans, then a ton of posts about anatomy scans, gestational diabetes tests, what to pack in hospital bags, etc. We’re all in the same place, so the same types of questions pop up over and over during each pregnancy phase.

These last weeks for everyone around my pregnancy stage have revealed something – it seems like at least half of all pregnant women on these message boards TRULY BELIEVE that they’re having a more difficult time than everyone else. Every eighth post is a question about how to ask your doctor to induce you early. Or what you can do at home to get labor started at 36 or 37 weeks. Or? OR? One woman who wanted her doctor to “scrap” her membranes, and if he wouldn’t do it, she would have her husband “scrap” them for her – but don’t worry, she’d have him wear a “sterial” glove, because, as she said, “I’m not stupid!”

And the reasons for this? Sick of being pregnant. Really uncomfortable. No, you don’t understand – my hips are really sore. Look, I know everyone is tired, but I’m REALLY not getting any sleep. The baby is really low so it’s hard to walk, so I really need to be induced early. My doctor won’t even consider inducing me until 39 weeks, should I find another doctor? You guys aren’t getting it – I’m really more uncomfortable than everyone else.

It reminds me of “Look Who’s Talking,” when Kirstie Alley went into labor and told the doctor that she thought that maybe he should give her a little extra in the way of drugs because she was pretty sure she was in a lot more pain than other women.

I admit, I am not the most sympathetic of ears when it comes to pregnancy discomfort. It’s like the weather – when someone tells me how hot it is where they live at 85 degrees, I don’t throw the fact that it gets to 116 here in their face, because hot is hot, and it’s relative. Just because I have had a difficult pregnancy doesn’t mean that your hips don’t hurt or you aren’t really uncomfortable. I do admit, though, that recently, when reading through high risk pregnancy boards and someone posts something to the effect of “I’m 38 weeks and my doctor just put me on bed rest for the rest of my pregnancy! How will I even DEAL WITH IT?,” I do get a liiiiiiittle bit eyerolly.

But in general! I accept the fact, like everyone else should, that we are ALL VERY UNCOMFORTABLE. We are all very large women with just about full-sized babies lodged in our midsections. We would ALL very much like to go into labor as soon as is medically reasonable. We all have terrible ass cramps. We all have learned how to pee in the dark in order to have the best chance of remaining mostly asleep when we have to heave ourselves out of bed at 4am – for the third time of the night.


But you can see the trend on any pregnant lady message board as each “group” gets closer and closer to the end. Several ladies NEED TO BE INDUCED and WILL FIND A WAY, right now, immediately, as soon as possible, against medical advice if necessary, because they are MUCH MORE UNCOMFORTABLE THAN YOU CAN EVEN IMAGINE.

So. What I assume or hope will be one of the last things I learn from pregnant lady message boards? Doesn’t matter if we’re all 8 months pregnant – you are NOT as miserable as someone else, there’s no possible way you could be NEARLY as miserable, as huge, as hot, as uncomfortable, as ready to be done being pregnant, as inconvenienced, as impatient, or know SO much more than your doctor as this other chick who NEEDS to be induced RIGHT THE HELL NOW.

End of pregnancy: I’m pretty sure it blows for everyone, but always remember that it blows slightly more for that other chick. You wouldn’t understand.

Hypothesis: Garlic Bread is a nefarious being. Proof: As follows.

I am just jumping in. I’m not even going to lengthy-introduction you with 500 barely-related words, Internet. That’s how you know I am either meaning serious business or feeling very unwell or both. It’s both.

Friday, I went to Dr. Nameless for my normal NST and check up – 34 weeks-ish. The NST went about as usual – an average experience, with her diving on and off the monitor, like she does, but at least making an acceptable showing. Right when we were getting to what I assumed would be the end of the NST, the nurse came in and took a peek at my strip (the thing that comes out of the machine) and without saying anything, went to get Dr. Nameless to take a peek as well. This is pretty standard – he makes sure we have what we need and then I get off the machine and go have my normal check up with him.

Well, this time he came in and looked and said, “Hm… well. What we’re going to do is, I’m going to have you guys head over to the hospital –,” at which point, I hit the ceiling, but not in a literal way, because I am short and was still strapped down and have you seen a pregnant lady try to get out of a squishy leather recliner? Yeah. Anyway, apparently, Garlic Bread’s heart rate was dropping repeatedly, and while it could end up being nothing – just her tugging on her own cord to be a goddamned asshole (SPOILER ALERT), it could also be something, and he said “I don’t need you to RUSH RIGHT over, but I do need you to go over. Now. Don’t stop at the store or anything.”

Basically, he wanted Garlic Bread to be monitored for a couple solid hours, and his office was not really the right venue for that. Labor and Delivery would be the correct place for that. Awesome. I fucking love that place.

Knowing the Bread as I do (AND I DO), I had Phil just drop me off at the door of the hospital. A couple hours of monitoring, pft. Am a pro at monitoring. Sent him back to work. Who needs him? Besides, I like to give him a little time off from staring directly into my bare belly.

Into L&D I went, and as it was day time – about 10am, maybe – there were no crowds, as they tend to come out at night. I got right back into triage and got to keep my own clothes on while they set me up on the monitors. As is usually the case with the hospital, they like to take any opportunity to gather any fluids you have to offer, so after I handled my cup, it was time to get some blood. They also like to put in a hep lock for an IV, just in case, though they don’t hook you up to anything unless they need to, so you can solo-pee.

You guys, never in my life have I been what could be called a “hard stick.” It is not difficult to get into my veins and set up shop. They’re huge. They’re fire hose-esque. They’re not even what you’d want blood-taking-learners to practice on, because they’d get the idea that it was too easy.

Attempt 1: between the bones of my right wrist (ugh, I hate that) – the nurse ran into a valve. Ok, it happens.

Attempt 2: between the bones of my left wrist – hurts way more than necessary and then doesn’t appear to work. Upon removing the needle, we see why. You know how there is a needle that pulls back and it leaves a little straw catheter thing in the vein for access? Well, the catheter went one way and the needle busted through it and right back through my wrist. Exclamations of “I have never even SEEN that before” did little to make me feel better, and I said, “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. But that really hurts.”

“That SHOULD hurt!,” the two nurses replied.


(“That REALLY HURT, Charlie. And it’s STILL HURTING.” Add your own adorable British toddler accent.)

(No, seriously. Still hurting.)

Attempt 3: The other nurse took a stab at this one, as two seems to be the limit they allow themselves. She tried the back of my right forearm, where she had spotted a gigantic vein among all my other gigantic veins. She poked and… nothing.

At this point, for attempt FOUR, they decided against putting in the IV rig and just getting the vials of blood they needed, so I pointed them right to my right krelbow (I will CONTINUE to use the word krelbow until SOMEONE remembers that episode of Blossom, SO HELP US ALL), where my never-fail vein is located.

Attempt 4: Poke, prod – success! Ish! 1 vial.. 2 vials… 3 vials… 4… … … vials… 5… … … …

“What’s happening?,” I asked.

“Well, the blood comes out because it’s pumping through the vein, but sometimes you blow out the vein, and you still get blood, it’s just that it’s being sucked out of the surrounding tissues.”


No, but seriously. Not their faults. No grudges held. It’s just that everything that COULD go wrong there absolutely did.

“On the plus side, though,” she said, “your baby looks great on the monitor!”

Of course she does.

So, covered in bandages and gooped up on the belly, I laid there for a while until a portable ultrasound machine was dragged in to do a BPP, just like I get every week at Dr. Stache. No big, am totally familiar with those.

More belly good, of course, and she started the scan as usual, which is of course when Garlic Bread decided she was going to take her nap for the day. Which necessitated the use of THE BUZZER, which necessitated finding the top of Garlic Bread’s head, which had apparently located itself well beneath the shave-line, if you will. No wonder I suddenly started walking like there’s a bowling ball in my pants.

While scanning, the tech said at one point, “Wow, your belly is REALLY hard all of a sudden.” I just grunted at her, because I was busy concentrating on the fact that Garlic Bread was repeatedly blowing up and deflating a balloon inside of me. Probably decorating for a party, planning to have all her friends over to once again celebrate how she fucked up my entire day from the inside.

The tech informed me that those were contractions. I informed her that I would like for her to put a stop to them. She informed me no.

Hey! Contractions! Why the hell not, right?

“But your baby looks great!,” she said.

Of course she does.

The ultrasound tech left and I watched House for a bit until my nurse came back to tell me that my blood pressure was kind of ridiculously high, and they’d be keeping me.

“But only for 24 hours! And some good news – the baby looks great!”


They needed to keep me so that they could do the 24 hour Jug of Shame test, though the jug loses some of its shamefulness when you don’t have to return it to the hospital and carry it around with your own hands. I called Phil to let him know what was going on, and told him not to bother to leave work – psh. 24 hours of observation and peeing in a plastic hat – I could handle that on my own for a while. I texted him a list of stuff to bring me (big underpants, lip balm) and told him to go ahead and finish out the work day, I’d see him when he could get there.

I changed into a hospital gown because I don’t know why – they wanted me to feel more butt insecurity or something – and sat and waited to be taken to my room. While waiting, another nurse came in with the whole rigging to set up the IV thing, and if I was the type of person to use the word “literally” incorrectly, I would tell you that they LITERALLY HAD TO PEEL ME OFF THE CEILING when I caught sight of her. Luckily, she eyed up my arms-o-bandage and decided to call someone else to do the IV, someone who would hunt down veins with an ultrasound before stabbing away.

I think, from this point, it is best to move into a list of events, because there were EVENTS.

– I went to my room and got settled in and was stabbed once again – this time in the back of my left forearm – and successfully this time. I was also hooked up to the familiar belly and finger monitors. My stomach is in a permanent state of lubed up, and did you know your index finger can sweat? A lot? It can. Well, mine can. Maybe yours can’t. I don’t know.

– Phil arrived with my bag full of requested belongings, including my pencil sharpener, because I can only do my puzzles with VERY SHARP PENCILS.

– My nurse popped her head in to ask, “Are you… feeling okay?” In fact, I was not. I was sweaty, dizzy and having a hard time catching my breath, which happens sometimes at home as well. My finger alarm had alerted the nurse that my pulse had climbed above 120, while I just laid there.

– We discover that the TV opens up a world of services to us, including the option to scroll through 11 different pictures, choose one we like, order it up, and have someone COME INTO THE ROOM and CHANGE THE ART on the walls. To promote better healing and happiness. ART CHANGING SERVICE.

– Every trip to the bathroom requires unplugging myself from various machines, draping cords around my neck, checking the time, writing down details, and reattaching all my cords when I’m done, but at least I can do it alone.

– A dude came to the room and gave me an EKG because of my elevated heart rate, but don’t worry – THE BABY LOOKED GREAT!


– Phil went home to be with the dogs. He debated cancelling the appointment with the cable guy that was set for the next day, but I said not to be ridiculous. He should definitely keep it. After all, they were bringing a new box that was like, 12% better than the old box. And nothing else. Obviously very important business.

– In addition to being strapped up around the belly and finger, I was brought some robotic leg warmers that took turns loudly inflating and deflating so as to keep my legs feeling leggy. After 9 weeks in bed, this is suddenly a concern? Or was it a concern the whole time and no one really got around to telling me? Who knows! The baby looked great, though!

– Of course.

– Around 9pm, a lady dragged a scale into my room and took my other vitals as well. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll only be back to bug you at 11:30 and at 4am, and then I’ll leave you alone.” Oh, is that all?

– At about 10:30, I am convinced to take a full dose of Ambien. I wouldn’t normally, but my doctor had ordered continuous monitoring. That means that if someone offers you Ambien, you should take it, because there is no other earthly way to get any sleep when you are all leashed up and lubed up.

– Midnight: restless legs kick in with a vengeance.

– 4am: The nurse comes in to hunt down Garlic Bread, because I had finally fallen all the way to sleep, so the damn wiener fetus decided to move off the monitors necessitating that I be disturbed to have everything readjusted. Oh, also? More contractions. Oh, and also also? It’s time to have the vitals taken again. Good news, though – the baby looks great!

– Yeah. You know.

– 4:10am: Ok, I am awake. I stare at my computer and wait for Phil to appear on GChat.

– 5:10am: HELLO HOW ARE YOU I’M AWAKE WHEN ARE YOU COMING? Oh. Not til after the cable guy? And he’s coming between 8 and noon? Oh.

– 5:12am: I begin to feel pitifully sorry for myself.

– 5:30am: A dude comes in to, I shit you not, DRAW SOME BLOOD. He opts for the back of my left hand, right near the bruise left from the IV in the back of my hand from Monday night’s L&D visit.

– At some point after that, the alarm started going off again, but it had been the whole time, on and off, so I ignored it, until my head started to feel like it might explode. It got so bad I started to cry and finally had to call for the nurse for something to help and she came in to see that my pulse had climbed and was holding steady over 130. She had me roll onto my side and tried to talk to me a little, asking where my husband was.

“He’s *huff, sob* with the *sniffle, huff* caaaaaable guuuuuuuuuuy. *waaaaaail*”

– Phil did arrive in relatively short order, after the Vicodin had kicked in and just before they were getting ready to take me for a heart echo. Are you seeing what is happening here? We went to the hospital because Garlic Bread sounded an alarm with her low heart rate. We end up with me being kept due to high blood pressure, needing to do a 24 hour Jug of Shame test, and having an EKG and heart echo for my own high heart rate. A high heart rate, I might add, which was making me feel MISERABLE, but not affecting the Bread AT ALL. I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “Baby looks great!”

– Or how many times I responded, “Of COURSE she does.”

– 1pm rolled around, which signaled the end of my 24 hours of shame, meaning we only had to wait for that test to be processed and then we should be cleared to leave. I saw Dr. Nameless just before that time and he indicated as much as well, as he wasn’t expecting to see anything dramatic in that test.

– 1pm comes and goes, 2pm, 3pm – Phil finally had to go home to take care of the dogs, assuming that he’d be coming back to get me in short order.

– 5pm or so – my nurse comes in and is FURIOUS. Not with me, but with some other doctor, who she said was likely going to write her up for her attitude, but she didn’t care. Turned out, they couldn’t get ANYONE to read my heart echo, as the doctor who ordered it had left the hospital and was unreachable and another doctor just refused. She talked to Dr. Nameless… who wasn’t comfortable letting me go home without hearing those test result.

– I cried.

– I called Phil to tell him I was staying another night – then suddenly asked him to go to the BX and get me another pair of clean shorts and if he could find them, some enormous underpants, and then got off the phone very quickly. I’m sure this was confusing to him.

– My nurse had spilled a giant cup of ice water into my bed and all over my butt. I sat in it for way longer than was sensible.

– I got to take a shower, which improved my mood by about 7000%, as did Phil’s arrival with these:

– Had an incredibly un-restful night, despite another dosing of Ambien and the fact that I “slept” from 8:30pm til 8:30am, because Garlic Bread flat out REFUSED to stay in a monitor-able position. Was once again presented with the travelling scale by the not-so-bright nurses’ aide (I’m sorry, she just wasn’t – the nurse asked her to put me back in my robotic leg warmers, so she did, but didn’t bother to turn them on, which, in my Ambien-haze, had me half-convinced that I’d die in the night from a blood clot that wasn’t prevented because the nurses’ aide thought I wanted to wear robotic leg warmers as decoration).

– Cried all morning for pretty much no good reason, nearly out of my mind on a combination of Ambien and Vicodin (I gave the heavy painkillers a fair shot at full dosage, you guys – I can’t say I’m a fan, but Phil did have a MUCH easier time getting my eye drops in), demanding to be taken home.

– The doctor who had ordered the echo and then vanished came in to talk to us, saying that my heart looked absolutely fine and offering various kind of silly explanations for why, at that very MOMENT, my heart rate was 125 while I just laid there looking at him. I again demanded to be taken home, possibly cried some more, and continued to wait for Dr. Nameless to clear me to go home.

– I definitely cried some more about how I felt like CRAP and I wanted to go HOME and I wanted to see my DOGS and I was never coming BACK and I was going to reabsorb that baby right up into me.

– I got taken home!

– I cried at home for a while, because I did not immediately and magically feel better, as I somehow assumed I would when I got into my own bed.

– Slept for 5 hours, sort of, half-waking up every 30 minutes to an hour to ask if it was time to get up or make nonsensical demands about real hamburgers that tasted like they were cooked for real and to also insist that I would NOT, in fact, be going to see Dr. Stache on Monday (which is now today), because fuck it, and also that I was NEVER going back to the hospital, and forget the whole goddamned thing, ok?

– It’s okay, though – I did go see Dr. Stache today, and while they were concerned about my high pulse, the baby looked great!